


John Watson's 12 Step Program

by Sherlyjohn



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Addiction, Angst, BAMF John Watson, BAMF Lestrade, Child Death, Child Injury, Cocaine, Doctor John Watson, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Emotional Sherlock, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Hand Jobs, Helpful Mycroft, Hypothermia, M/M, Minor Character Death, PTSD, Panic Attacks, Papa Greg, Poor Sherlock, Sad, Sad Sherlock, Sex, Sherlock Needs A Hug, Sherlock Panic Attack, Sweet John Watson, Violence, roaming pov
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-05
Updated: 2018-02-06
Packaged: 2018-09-06 14:28:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 24,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8756152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sherlyjohn/pseuds/Sherlyjohn
Summary: Sherlock is faced with one of his toughest cases yet and John must keep Sherlock together long enough to catch the man responsible before Sherlock breaks. Set before Richenbach, with established Johnlock.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE BE SURE TO READ TAGS FOR TRIGGER WARNINGS!!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Though wise men at their end know dark is right,  
> Because their words had forked no lightning they  
> Do not go gentle into that good night."  
> -Dylan Thomas

Tonight was a danger night. John could tell the moment Sherlock walked in the door and stepped into the sitting room, movements timid and face troubled.

“You okay?” John inquired.

Sherlock did not respond, but merely gazed into the room before heading down the hall to his own room.

John sighed and set the book he was reading on the table. He got to his feet and hovered near the kitchen before deciding to do the washing and put the kettle on. Sherlock rarely went to his own room anymore, preferring to lay in John’s bed whether John was there or not. He had moved most of his things into John’s room by now.

After the hot water whistled John removed the kettle and poured in two cups of tea. He paused near the hallway, glancing down to Sherlock’s closed bedroom door. Sighing again, he decided to leave him be.

For now.

John left Sherlock’s steaming cup on the coffee table and continued to read, keeping an ear open. The sun sunk lower and lower, casting blinding light through the dusty curtains, making the dust particles dance and shimmer.

John couldn’t focus on his book, fidgeting with a hole on his jumper sleeve.

The sun had gone down completely and John flicked on the kitchen light, dumping Sherlock’s un-drunk tea into the sink. The hours grew later and John glanced at his watch, he cast another anxious glance to Sherlock’s room.

He stood abruptly and went down the hall and knocked.

A muffled ‘humph’ issued from the other side of the door.

“Sherlock. Thought we’d turn in. You okay in there?”

“M’fine.” Came the grumbled reply.

“Can I come in?”

“No.”

“Please…”

A snort, “Stop bothering… don’t need…”

John’s brow furrowed at Sherlock’s tone. He sounded drunk… or… God no, he couldn’t be. Lestrade had checked the place only last week.

John turned the handle but the door wouldn’t budge. If anything, this confirmed John’s suspicions. He moaned and tugged at the handle again.

“Sherlock, open up.”

“No.”

“Now.” John commanded.

“Why?”

“I need to talk to you.”

“Aren’t you doing that now?” Sherlock slurred slightly.

“Dammit.” John hissed, “Sherlock Holmes open this door now or I will shoot the handle off.” Desperate measures, John figured.

His ‘Captain Watson’ voice must have gotten through to him for the lock clicked a moment later and John wrenched the door open.

Sherlock walked back to his bed, falling face-first on the dust-coated covers, causing a dust cloud to ‘poof’ slightly.

John looked round the room; papers, bio samples, and case files strewn about. This case had been going on for about a month, filled with long nights and John pulling teeth to get Sherlock to eat or sleep. He checked the drawers and under the bed, there he found a small case with a two syringes inside. Both were empty.

“Jesus.” He breathed, standing up straight with the needle clutched in his hand.

“Sherlock.” John hissed, trying to steady his boiling temper, “What. Did. You. Take?”

“Nothing.” Sherlock insisted into the covers.

John marched over to Sherlock and turned him over. His eyes were bloodshot, hair a tangled mess and skin pale.

“Don’t you dare… don’t lie to me, Sherlock. What did you take?”

“Ah hell, what’s it matter?” Sherlock asked, throwing his hands up, “It was just a hit, John. Nothing harmless.”

“Nothing… Nothing harmless.” John stammered, his hands balling into fists, knuckles turning stark white. “Sherlock. What the hell are you thinking?”

“John-“

“No, you know what, no. Once in your life, shut up. Just shut up.” John hissed, his voice like poison.

Sherlock must have heard that threat in his boyfriend’s voice because he did not respond, merely rolled his eyes.

John pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed, “How long has this been going on and I know when you’re lying to me so don’t even try.”

Sherlock interjected, “Oh you want me to answer? Cause you told me to shut up and-“

“Oh don’t start.” John growled.

Sherlock chuckled, “You are angry aren’t you. How curious you are, you care so much about what I do to myself and yet you’re clearly angry with me. You claim to love me yet you look as though you want to hit me.”

“Because you’re infuriating! I’m angry because I care a hell of a lot about you, Sherlock and you’re destroying yourself.” John shouted, “Now tell me how long you have been doing drugs or I will call your brother.”

“Oh you think you’re so clever, calling the British Government on me. Very good John, I am trembling with fear.” Sherlock drawled.

John closed his eyes and sucked in a huge breath.

“Why?” John asked, his voice loosing it’s anger like a deflating balloon, “Why would you want to do this to yourself. You’re so bloody smart… just… explain to me why….”

“There are a lot of things you don’t understand, John. I do not want to waste my time explaining them to you.”

John sunk onto Sherlock’s bed, “Please try to explain to me.” He put a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, “Or at least tell me what you took.”

“Mycroft usually has me make a list.” Sherlock mumbled.

“What?”

“Cocaine.” Sherlock stated, “that’s what I took.”

John hissed under his breath.

“You… Jesus.”

“You’re clearly upset.” Sherlock deadpanned.

“Yes.” He gritted, “I’m upset. What… what made you do this?”

Sherlock scoffed, “Nothing made me do this John. I am a man of free will.”

“And a bloody fool.” John hissed, pulling him up. “Okay, I need to know how much was in that. Because coming down from that high isn’t going to be fun. Looks like you’re starting it now.” John observed, slipping into doctor mode. He checked Sherlock’s pulse, beating far too quickly under his fingertips.

“Stay right here.” He ordered. Sherlock huffed and swayed a bit as John let go of his arm.

He hurried down the hall and found his first aid kit in the bathroom. He jogged back into Sherlock’s bedroom and saw him lying face down on his bed, feet dangling of the end.

“Come on, up you get, you git.” John hissed, pulling Sherlock into a sitting position once more. Sherlock moaned, heaving out a long sigh.

He looked terrible. John had read up a bit on the effects of some of these drugs when he’d heard Sherlock was an addict, just in case he ever got his hands on some. Cocaine wasn’t pleasant, to say the least.

“Sherlock.” John, pulled out his tiny flashlight and shined it in his eyes. Sherlock flinched at the light and tried to pull away, but John kept him there. His pulps blown wide, with the red veins popping out.

“How much did you take? Both of those needles?” John assumed the worst.

Sherlock shrugged. That was as good as a yes.

“Okay…” he breathed, closing his eyes for a moment. He needed to think, dammit. Put aside his anger and figure out what was best for Sherlock, medically first, then psychologically.

“Sweetheart, can you tell me what you’re experiencing.” John took on his concerned partner tone instead, because that had worked to calm Sherlock down in the past. But he had never dealt with a drugged-up Sherlock. This was a new one.

“John, m’fine. Leave me be.”

“You’re not fine, I know you’re not, so don’t lie to me.” John repeated, his tone biting. He kept a grip on Sherlock’s arm and made Sherlock look him in the eye.

“How much did you take tonight?”

“Both.” Sherlock responded, “Helps me think.”

“Yes well that could help you die, Sherlock. Ever thought of that?” John mumbled, tightening his grip on Sherlock’s arm.

“Let go, John. Leave me alone.” Sherlock tried to pull away, but the drugs in his system made him weak and listless. John loosened his grip but did not let him go.

“I could go get some benzodiazepines from the surgery, but I don’t want to leave you here alone.” John mumbled, practically to himself, “And Mrs. Hudson would have a fit if she found out. So I guess we’re going to have to wait it out and then you’re coming with me.”

“Why?” Sherlock slurred, leaning back in bed and closing his eyes, “What’s it matter what I spend my free time doing. I got far in the case.”

“And when Lestrade hears about this, he’ll take you off the case. Hell, I won’t let you work until you’re clean.” John clipped.

Sherlock gave him a withering look but did not respond.

“I’m going to make us some tea. Do try and sleep, won’t you?” He watched Sherlock turn his back on John and curl into himself, dragging the duvet with him, until nothing but his black hair could be seen over the pale sheets.

John left the door open and walked back to the sitting room, pulling out his mobile. He dialed and waited.

“John, to what do I owe this unexpected-“

“He’s using again.” John deadpanned.

A short silence greeted his words, tangible in the air.

“What substance?”

“Cocaine.”

“And that’s it?” Mycroft countered.

“What do you mean, that’s… yes. I found the needles.”

“The needle(s), as in two of them?”

“Yes.”

“And they were both used?”

“Yes.”

Mycroft sighed.

“Has he, I mean… what do I…” John struggled getting the words out, “It’s this case, it’s eating him up, he’s been at it for over a month and-“

“I know-“

“I should have seen the signs… I don’t think this is the first time, but I thought his manic behavior was because of lack of sleep… I didn’t even notice. Who knows how long he’s been at it and-“

“John.” Mycroft’s tone commanded silence, “You need to get a hold of yourself. I am indisposed at the moment and can’t get back to London in any foreseeable future, so you need to listen very carefully and heed my word to the letter, do you understand?”

“Yeah okay.”

“Sherlock Holmes is not a man to take drugs lightly. He uses Heroin when he wants to feel good, he smokes when he’s stressed, and he uses Cocaine when he is troubled… usually in hopes that it will dim his emotions and hone his brainpower. He upholds the strong belief that Cocaine in particular aids him in investigative skills while stimulating the brain. However, the high is short-lived so he drops off easily. Therefore, he will go to Cocaine in bulks, get a stock of it and use it often. It becomes more addictive and he has built up quite a remarkable tolerance to it so he has to use more to stimulate himself.”

“He can wean himself off of cigarettes, and he can stop using Heroin when he feels it’s necessary, but I would consider Cocaine his vice. It is extremely hard to get Sherlock off that particular drug.”

“Lovely. So what do you think I should do?” John asked. He was beginning to lose his feigned composure as the gravity of the situation hit him for the first time, like a ten-ton freight train.

“You have to scour the house, to be sure you find all of it. And I mean all. And you may be able to convince him into… other activities since you two are romantically involved.”

“Okay Mycroft, thanks for the advice, but I don’t need you telling me when I can shag my boyfriend or not.” John sighed, feeling his face reddening.

“Well,  I propose you call Detective Inspector Lestrade and have him threaten to take him off the case. I know it is a particularly difficult one. I haven’t been able to solve it yet.”

John held his tongue, to stop himself from remarking on his arrogance.

“Okay. Okay. Jesus Mycroft, how many times have you done this?”

“Far too many to count.” Mycroft sounded weary and tired, “I’m sure Greg Lestrade can give you the details, he was a very useful resource for me in the past.”

John chuckled, “Okay, yeah, okay. Thanks.” And he hung up. The kettle whistled shrilly and John went to pour two cups of Chamomile. He wished he could pour some alcohol in his. He headed back into Sherlock’s bedroom and found him lying in bed, eyes half open, looking extremely drowsy.

“Sherlock?” John began quietly.

“Mmm.”

“Sit up, I have some tea.”

“Go ‘way.” He mumbled.

“Come now, you need something else in you, just drink the ruddy tea.” John commanded.

Sherlock took the cup from John, his hands trembling slightly. His eyes were dark and sad-looking. This wasn’t going to be fun.

“Sherlock, sweetheart. How do you feel?”

“Like you’re prying.” He clipped.

John huffed but merely sat on the edge of the bed.

Sherlock took a sip of tea and grumbled something under his breath.

“What?”

“Why do you care? I don’t care, why should you?”

“First of all, you do care.” John replied, keeping his tone even, “and second of all, I care because I love you, and I want you to be okay.”

“But I was perfectly fine before you came along, I didn’t need anyone to babysit me.” Sherlock spat.

John closed his eyes.  _ It’s just the drugs. He’s just crashing. He’s just a bloody idiot. _

“Okay sure. I know you could. But I like to be here, I want to be here.”

“Well I don’t.”

John’s brows furrowed, “You don’t… want me here?”

“No I do not. So leave.”

John shook his head, “You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

Sherlock growled and sat up, sloshing tea down his hand and wincing. John watched him, his heart hammering. Sherlock looked absolutely murderous.

“Get. Out.” He commanded, his hands shaking worse than ever.

John stood, looking sharply at him, “You don’t get to tell me what to do. Not when I find you drugged out of your mind and have no idea how long it’s been going on. I should have seen the signs. No, Sherlock. You don’t get to tell me what’s best for you right now because you chose me and that’s for better or for worse, you understand. I’ve spent two years looking after you, making sure you didn’t kill yourself and this is how you repay me? By chewing me up and spitting me back out again? No I don’t think so.”

“Leave me alone!” Sherlock yelled, and he hurled the mug across the room at John, who ducked. The mug shattered against the wall and tea splattered the carpet.

John stood stalk still, clenching and unclenching his hands.

“Fine. Okay. Fine.” John headed for the door, his voice resolute, “I’m done. I’m leaving.” He slammed the door shut and marched down the hall. He pulled out his mobile and dialed a number, his hand shaking.

“John, do you know what time it is?.”

“Baker street, now.” John growled and hung up. He grabbed his coat and wrenched open the door.

Mrs. Hudson stood at the bottom of the stairs, eyes wide, “Did I hear a commotion, John?”

“Yes.” John growled, “Lestrade will be here soon, you tell him to get him clean. I’m leaving.”

“What… did you two have a domestic?”

John laughed harshly, “You could say that.” And he left without another word, pulling open the front door and heading into the frigid night.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Yes, I understand why things had to happen this way. I understand his reason for causing me pain. But mere understanding does not chase away the hurt. It does not call upon the sun when dark clouds have loomed over me. Let the rain come then if it must come! And let it wash away the dust that hurt my eyes!”  
> ― Jocelyn Soriano

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note the added tags!

 

_ Three weeks earlier _

 

The rain pounded heavily against the windows. Sherlock and John were stuck indoors, Sherlock sitting on the floor, papers surrounding him; case files, photos, and blood samples. The storm outside was too tenuous to venture out in.

John sat on the couch, scribbling notes on a small black notepad. Sherlock leaned against John’s legs, his own slender legs stretched out across the floor.

He growled in frustration and gripped his dark curls in his hands, “there is no pattern.” He hissed.

John set his pencil down and pulled one of Sherlock’s hands out of his hair and into his own, rubbing his palm absently.

“Maybe because it’s random?”

“Who would kill at random?” Sherlock replied stonily, “Serial killers always have a pattern. I just need to find it.”

“The cabbie didn’t. Remember?”

“Of course I remember, John, and he did have a pattern, to some extent. These are all women, all unrelated, no connection, unless there is one to the killer.”

“Yes. But these woman, maybe he was attracted to them, but… he… I don’t know, killed them because none of them were good enough.”

“But why kill them? That would be ridiculous, why kill them without ever touching them, without any signs of physical or sexual violence. He would have left some evidence, but there’s nothing.” Sherlock snapped.

“Right, sorry.”

“It was… a good idea…” Sherlock replied lamely.

The corner’s of John’s mouth turned up in a loving smile.

“You’re adorable when you try to apologize.” John recognized, pulling his chin up to plant a small kiss on his lips.

Sherlock sighed and leaned his head against Johns.

“What’s the next step?” John asked him, lacing his fingers through Sherlock’s dark curls, rubbing circles into his scalp.

“I’m waiting for the results on the mud residue at the first crime scene.” Sherlock replied, closing his eyes, “the weather's not cooperating or I’d go down to the morgue myself.”

John hummed in understanding, “Well the equipment we have here isn’t bad. It should be able to identify it.”

Sherlock nodded.

“Will you eat something if I make anything?” John planted a kiss onto Sherlock’s forehead as he stood, throwing his notepad aside.

“No.” He replied, going back to the case file.

John sighed, “I should have rephrased that differently.”

“I will eat if you’ll come to bed with me later.” Sherlock replied, his eyebrows raised mischievously.

John chuckled and nodded, “Okay, yeah.” and hurried to the kitchen to pull out stuff for sandwiches, avoiding the plate of eyeballs covered in cling wrap.

He fixed a plate for both him and Sherlock and brought the food back. He froze in the doorway when he saw Sherlock holding John’s journal.

“Sher-“

“You take very detailed notes on me, John. I should be flattered but you wrote ‘becomes aloof when dealing with case added on by lack of sleep, and easier to resort to short-tempered outbursts. He seems fatigued more often and is showing signs of a pre-diabetic state.’ You are more observant than I give you credit for.”

“Dammit Sherlock, you’re not supposed to read that!” John pinched the bridge of his nose.

Sherlock smirked at him and thumbed through the rest of the notebook.

“You started taking notes on my health two weeks after you moved in.” He noted, eyebrows raised, “impressive.”

John merely rolled his eyes and walked forward, handing Sherlock his sandwich. Sherlock groaned but John lifted an eyebrow at him, “Remember our promise. I could take you to bed if you’re good.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “I’ll eat to a good shag.” Sherlock nibbled the corner of his sandwich.

John grinned slyly, there were a few improvements to Sherlock’s mood and overall behaviour since they started dating. It had started with getting Sherlock to eat and tire him out in bed. It improved Sherlock’s overall health, as well as John’s and his happiness. Of course, they still bickered and got in a row, but one of them would either walk it off or they would end up madly kissing one another. Either way, John preferred when Sherlock was happy and healthy and he seemed to be doing better with John around.

Sherlock ate half of his sandwich before setting it aside and jumping up to check the data under the microscope.

“Ah.” He exclaimed, flourishing a sheet of paper that was nearest him and scribbled down.

“Found something?” John asked through a mouthful of turkey sandwich.

“Yes, of course.” Sherlock breathed, looking up, “Come, John.” He swept into the living room and snatched his coat.

John pulled on his own, “But it’s a downpour out there.” John protested, “Where are we going?”

“Thames, north Thames. She must have been killed there and he moved the body.” Sherlock exclaimed, hurrying down the stairs.

“For god’s sake.” John mumbled, but smiled despite himself. Sherlock hadn’t had a break in almost a week and it was driving them both up the wall. The killer was onto its fourth victim and they were killing about every two days, all around the same time. All of Scotland Yard seemed to be waiting for the next body to drop, or for Sherlock to catch them; whichever came first. John could tell it was eating at Sherlock, even though he hid it well. That’s the other thing he noticed about his lover after they starting going out; he cared much more than he let on. He was not the machine that many thought he was.

John trotted after Sherlock, into the absolute deluge that was making itself known by soaking through his clothes almost instantly. Sherlock had not yet managed to find a cab and looked about ready to run to their destination.

John caught up with him and spotted a cab. He sprinted for it, with Sherlock at his heels. They got to it just as another, well-dressed man in a suit hailed it.

“Move.” Sherlock yelled, pushing him aside while John replied, “Sorry.” Piling in after him, “police business!” he tried to explain to the infuriated man before closing the door.

Sherlock rattled off their destination and the cabbie zoomed off.

They arrived in good time, Sherlock leaving John to pay the cabbie. John sighed, glad he had cash on him.

He followed Sherlock as he sprinted across to the Millennium Bridge, pushing past people, though few were out in the downpour. The Thames rolled and roared beneath them.

Sherlock’s eyes calculated the area around them, John at his heels They sprinted toward St. Paul's Cathedral, looming in front of them. Sherlock stopped so abruptly that John had to swerve to avoid him.

His breath panted out in puffs, smoking out of his mouth in the pounding rain around him.

“Ah, Sherlock.” A deep Scottish voice drawled.

John’s head snapped up and he gasped.

A tall man stood on the bridge wearing a pressed suit and a gruff red beard covered the majority of his face. He held a small pistol to the back of a tiny girl, unnoticed by those who passed. She couldn’t be older than 6 or 7. She cried softly as he gripped her by the back of her pink jacket.

“Let her go, this is not her fight.” Sherlock murmured, his voice a deadly whisper.

“Yes, but she got your attention. This is certainly the youngest one I’ll kill so far.” The man remarked, his mouth tugging in a satisfied smirk at the look of controlled fury on Sherlock’s face.

“You don’t know who I am, do you?”

“I can guess and I’m always right.” Sherlock replied, his face impassive.

“Sherlock.” John moaned in his ear, “careful.”

Sherlock stepped forward, “I know you were hired to kill these women, to get my attention. I know you find it amusing and are acclimatized to murder, it doesn’t bother you anymore, not after your employer brought you into the business. You were trained before that, the Army, I would presume, by your stance. You were trained in long-range shot and are quite impressive with your shot, saying as every woman you killed was killed by a long-range sniper. You enjoy a pint now and then and are almost verging on alcoholic when you-“

“Are you quite done?” The man asked, “Or can I kill her now?”

Sherlock seemed shocked into speechlessness.

“You got me here, you lured your second victim here to this very spot only last week to give me a hint and moved her body to throw everyone else off the trail. You knew I’d come alone, or at least not with Scotland Yard because they slow me down.”

“Yes, good. I knew that you’d come alone because he told me, you have a power complex and a desperate need to always be right.”

“Who told you? And I am always right.” Sherlock replied smoothly.

John slipped a hand slowly into his pocket, but he forgot his gun. He cursed under his breath.

“So, Sherlock Holmes, you need me to tell you your deductions were correct? You want validation? Well, how about this, I am going to kill this girl and I am going to keep killing, until I get bored or my employer wants me to stop. I’m a good civil servant like that. Working extra hours, always the last to clock out at the office.”

Sherlock scoffed, “And you think showing your face would scare me. This… power play would, what? Convince me of your diligence?”

The man sighed, “no, because we wanted to reel you in, test you. And now that you’re under my microscope I can see you as plain as day, and my power play? I’d like to see what you’ll do with this… we’ll see if you really have a heart that I can burn out.” And with that he picked up the girl and climbed up to the railing, she cried as he threw her over the edge.

“No.” John gasped. He sprinted after the man as he tore off toward St. Paul’s. Meanwhile Sherlock gripped the edge of the railings and dove off the bridge into the water, running calculations on the way down.

The speed of the river versus the time to fall, he would have to propel himself forward. He calculated the distance between himself and the girl.

The cold water engulfed him, hitting him like a thousand knives piercing his body, searing his insides, blanking his mind. He pulled his mind from its frozen entrapment and his head broke the surface. Wet drops splashed onto his head as violent chills wracked his body.

He focused his mind, honing in on where the girl had fallen. He allowed the current to pull him forward, tugging swiftly at his sodden clothes and shivering frame. He spotted a pink dot up ahead and swam forward, the current engulfing him and splashing over his head. He saw the girl sink and dove forward, his coat dragging him down. His hands groped under the water, but the murky depths were clouded. He surfaced, sucked in an air full and dove back beneath the icy surface. His eyes flew open underwater and stung as he peered around.

He spotted the girl, sinking below it’s depts, her tiny legs hitting rocks near the bottom. He dove forward, kicking violently and wrapping his arms around the girl's middle, pulling with all his might to the surface, his lungs screaming in protest. The water rushed around him as his head finally broke the surface. The current was strong enough that Sherlock had to pull himself and the girl with great difficulty through the water and rocks. His legs kicked out and his arm not holding the girl swept through the icy water.

He was ten feet from the sandy shore. Too far for the amount of time the girl had been under. She was limp in Sherlock’s arms as he pulled her to the shallower end, until he was practically crawling along the sand and rocks, the jagged edges cutting his hands, the water lapping against the edges. He heaved her first, lungs wheezing as he clambered out after her, water seeping from him like a wound.

He rolled the girl onto her back as sirens wailed nearby. He checked the tiny girl's’ pulse, pulling off her jacket as he felt nothing.

Recovery Breaths. She has approximately 2 inches diameter of water in her lungs and cannot breathe due to the water blocking her esophagus. He must attempt to rid the water from her lungs, by first providing rescue breaths.

He pinched the girl's tiny nose and puffed a breath of air into her, her chest stayed resolutely still. He breathed again, still nothing. She was deathly pale, her black hair a stark contrast against her white pallor.

People ran towards him and the limp girl, some yelling, their footfalls muffled by sand and crunched over rock.

He pushed a hand to her tiny ribcage, locating the heart and pushing down, feeling ribs crack beneath his touch, like snapping a toothpick. He breathed into her mouth again, desperately trying to breathe life back into her tiny form.

He continued CPR, even though he could see death in her eyes and knew there was no way she had survived being under the water for over the two minutes it took for Sherlock to pull her up. Including the struggling that most likely proceeded falling in the water and the shock of the icy water that took on her already thin form. She was dead before Sherlock had pulled her out of the water and logically, he knew that. But he could not get his hands to stop pumping her tiny chest and attempting to grant her life again through his own breath.

“Sir.” A gruff voice said, “we’ll take over.”

Sherlock didn’t stop pumping her chest.

“Sherlock.” He recognized Lestrade’s voice, “C’mon mate, let it go.” A hand fell on his shoulder and broke him from his revere.

He stopped and stood, as the paramedics pulled out a body bag, declaring the time of death.

“Did John get him?”

“No, he ran off into a crowd and jumped into a black car, the bastard got away but John managed to get a license plate so that’s something.” Lestrade rubbed his face in his hands.

Sherlock scoffed.

“He’s talking to one of my officers, but he’s coming over now.”

“Sherlock… Sherlock.”

The rain hit his face heavily and his eyes were glued to the paramedics zipping her up in the body bag, her pale face disappearing from sight, swallowing her whole.

“Sherlock? Can you hear me? You’re shaking, c’mon we need to get you to an ambulance. The paramedics want to see you…”

Sherlock heard John’s voice as though from far away, some obscure sound.

A warm hand touched his trembling arm, and gently guided him towards the flashing lights beyond the sand and rocks and lapping water.

She would have fallen asleep before she drowned. Sherlock thought.

“Sit here, we need to take off your coat.” John said, his voice barely a whisper.

Sherlock stared ahead as John peeled his coat off him. Rain smacked his face and he felt chills rack his body, making his teeth chatter.

“He’s going to be hypothermic if we don’t get him out of those clothes.” A voice said nearby.

“I think he needs to come back with us to the hospital, those cuts on his hands will need stitches and we need to get his core temperature back up.”

Sherlock’s eyes snapped to John’s for the time, a well hidden panic stood out clear as day to John.

“No, no hospitals. I’m a doctor, I’ll take him home. Give me that coat please, and have you got an umbrella?”

The paramedics must have handed them one because Sherlock found a strong arm on his shoulder as he stood, focusing on his breathing.

“Oh Gods, what’s happened?” Sherlock recognized that voice and saw Anderson trotting over, closely followed by Sergeant Donovan.

“Jesus, she was just a little girl.” Donovan turned to Sherlock and John as John lead him to Lestrade.

“Freak, did you go for a swim?”

“Don’t you bloody well call him that, he tried to save her.” John growled.

“She was dead before I could get to her, the impact of the water collapsed her lungs and the temperature of the water put her body into a preliminary shock, I merely wanted to recover the body for evidence saying as no one could catch the killer.” Sherlock snapped, he needed to keep his mask securely on his face. No one could think that he cared. Caring was a disadvantage.

“My God, you are heartless, aren’t you?” Anderson sneered, “You didn’t even think you could save her, did you? You just wanted your precious DNA, your evidence. He is a freak.”

“Fuck off.” John growled, just as Lestrade hurried over.

“Will you take us home?” John asked, still looking at the two of them and breathing heavily, “now.”

“Yeah, c’mon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More to come! Thank you for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I don't want to be at the mercy of my emotions. I want to use them, to enjoy them, and to dominate them.”  
> –Oscar Wilde
> 
>  
> 
> John helps Sherlock in the aftermath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm terribly sorry it's been so long, but hopefully I can turn out a few more chapters in the next few weeks! Thanks for you continued support and commitment to this story!

It was a testament to how much of a haze that Sherlock was in that he didn’t protest to riding back to Baker Street in a police car. John gripped his sodden arm the whole ride home, Lestrade silent in the front seat.

When they  pulled up to the flat, Sherlock was trembling violently. Worry gripped John’s stomach like a vice, churning his anxiety to fear. Sherlock was going to be hypothermic soon if he didn’t do something, then they’d have to go to the hospital anyway. But seeing the fear in Sherlock’s eyes when the hospital had been suggested had stopped John from dragging him there. He clearly did not want to be under the scrutiny of anyone at the moment, let alone unknown doctors poking and prodding.

“Up you get, c’mon.” John gently pulled Sherlock out of the car and threw Lestrade a meaningful look.

“Keep me updated, I’ll call tomorrow.” Lestrade grumbled.

“Ta, Greg.” He closed the car door and hurried Sherlock through the front door of the flat.

Mrs. Hudson came puttering out of her door, “Hello dearies, do you-“ She stopped abruptly, “Oh dear, what’s happened?”

“Would you put the kettle on, Mrs. Hudson?” John asked in an undertone, heading up the stairs, “And maybe get us something warm to eat, if you’ve got anything?”

“Yes, yes of course. I’ll grab some blankets too.”

John nodded his thanks as he helped Sherlock up the stairs. The taller man leaned heavily on his partner, breathing shallowly.

John got them through their door and instantly started pulling off Sherlock’s clothes.

“Kinky…” Sherlock slurred, “Should take me to dinner first.”

This was bad. He was slurring his words and his movements were uncoordinated as John pulled off his trousers and Sherlock stood in his boxers, leaving a puddle of water in his wake. His trembling became violent as John pulled off his boxers and grabbed a blanket from the couch, throwing it around Sherlock’s shoulders like a cape.

“Sit on the couch, Mrs. Hudson’s bringing up a cuppa and something warm. I’m going to start a fire, we’ve got to raise your core temperature.” Sherlock stumbled and John helped him to the couch before cranking up the thermostat and jogging over to grab a towel from the bathroom. He returned to see Sherlock trying to stand, blinking rapidly and hands shaking.

“Nope, no, stay there.” He pushed Sherlock back onto the couch and the door opened.

“Mrs. Hudson, thank you.”

The tray she held tinkled slightly as she set it on the table by Sherlock, smiling warmly, her eyes tinged with worry.

“Anything else you need, just holler.”

“Ta.” He took the blankets from her folded hands and wrapped another around his trembling flatmate.

“John-“ Sherlock slurred, his eyes fevered, “I wasn’t really trying to get her body. I was trying to save her.” Sherlock looked unnecessarily desperate as he told John this, his eyes imploring.

“I know.” John whispered, putting his hands on Sherlock shoulders and kissing him on his ice-cold cheek. He touched his forehead to Sherlock’s and they breathed together, Sherlock’s breathing still shallow.

Mrs. Hudson had gone to get the fire going and it roared to life in their fireplace. John nodded to her and pulled Sherlock up. He walked him over to the fire and Sherlock tried to shrug him off,

“I can walk-“ He mumbled.

John sighed slightly, at least he was belligerent again, turning back to his normal self.

He wasn’t shaking as much either.

John pulled Sherlock down right in front of the fire and went to get the tray of tea and soup their landlady had brought.

“Let me take a look at those hands before you drink your tea.” John insisted as Sherlock’s stare remained fixed to the wall. John cleaned the cuts on his hands and arms, ignoring the heavy thumping of his heart. Had Sherlock dived in and hit a rock, or gone in at the wrong angle, he would have died. Even the impact of the water at such a high speed could have killed him. John shook the thought away and gently applied bandages to his hands before gingerly handing him his steaming mug of Earl Grey.

“Drink this.” 

Sherlock took it mutely, gazing into the fire.

“Here.” John grabbed the towel he had left abandoned on his chair and patted down Sherlock’s hair, still sopping wet. He dabbed his hair with the towel and Sherlock leaned into the touch.

His vulnerability was frightening. It wasn’t that he didn’t want Sherlock to feel, but he so rarely let his guard down or even allowed himself to be insecure.

John curled close to him and hummed, “What you did was incredibly brave.”

Sherlock chuckled darkly, “And ineffective. We are no closer to catching this man then we were yesterday and now another one is dead.”

John could have sworn he saw tears prick Sherlock’s eyes before he blinked and they returned to their smooth crystalline coldness.

“That’s not true and you know it.” John countered, “You must have made a dozen deductions about this man, you said you could guess who he is.”

“Yes. He’s Moriarty’s right-hand man. I believe he was a sniper trained in Scotland who turned to Moriarty’s services early on; he said he was loyal, so they must have known one another for a fairly long time.”

“But then, why is he doing this?”

“Because he wants to toy with my emotions. I believe it’s Moriarty’s way of seeing if I can break.”

“Jesus.” John mumbled. All of this, just to tease Sherlock. It was like the 5 pips all over again. He knew how poorly that had ended and decided to stay silent. No one needed a reminder of that night at the pool, well, except for the thank-God-we’re-alive shag that followed. 

But still…

John leaned his head on Sherlock’s shoulder, pulling him in closer, “Keep drinking your tea, we still need to raise your temperature.”

Sherlock obliged and even allowed John to check his pulse. Either John was very influential on the man or he was too tired to argue.

They sat by the fire as the sun sank low over the city, the rain still pounding relentlessly against the windows.

London wept, it seemed.

 

John took Sherlock to their bedroom a few hours later and pulled warm sweatpants on him and one of his warmest, baggiest jumpers over Sherlock’s head.

“John- I’m fine.”

“But you’re still cold, so just climb under the covers and let me warm you up.”

Sherlock did as the doctor ordered, and the said doctor climbed in after him.

The rain pounded heavily against the windows and the two of them lay in the dark of John’s bedroom. Sherlock looked up at the ceiling, his eyes unfocused, and body trembled slightly.

John lay beside him, gazing up the ceiling, eyes darting to his partner ever so often. He spoke into the broken silence,

“You don’t have to be strong for me you know. You can pretend for them all you want, but here, in this flat, you are allowed to feel.”

Sherlock released a sigh, heavy with emotion and turned to John, his eyes desperate in the moonlight careening into their room.

“But what if I can’t stop it.” Anguish filled his voice and John’s heart broke. He pulled Sherlock close and Sherlock buried his head into John’s neck, his dark hairs tickling John’s exposed skin.

“Let it go. I’ve got you.” John mumbled.

He felt Sherlock’s muscles loosen from their tightly wound position and a broken moan escaped his lips.

“It’s my fault.” Sherlock heaved the words from his mouth like they were a curse.

“Shhh no it wasn’t.” John replied sternly, tracing circles into Sherlock’s back. He breathed out shallow breaths, the air sounding cracked in his lungs as he fought for control.

“I’m here, Sherlock. Let go. It’s okay. I’m here.” John soothed.

Sherlock released a broken sob and his breath puffed warm against John’s neck.

“It’s alright. I’ve got you.”

Sherlock slender hands clung to the front of John’s jumper like a lifeline. He strangled the fabric and sobbed into it.

He cried for around a minute before taking in shuttering breaths and composing himself once more.

John was scared out of his mind, he had never seen Sherlock lose it like this before. Never seen him break down. He knew it was a healthy release of emotions  but it scared the hell out of him. He didn’t know what to do or say, so he merely wrapped Sherlock tighter in his arms, offering as much physical comfort as he needed.

“John.” Sherlock schooled his voice not to crack, but he uttered it as quiet as a prayer.

“Yes love?”

“How do you manage to feel this much all the time?”

John lifted his head to look into Sherlock’s eyes, bright with guilt.

“You let it run it’s course, and then you move on.” John replied, “You live through it.”

“But caring is not an advantage. It makes us weak. It makes me weak.”

“No, that’s where you’re wrong.” John replied, marvelling at Sherlock’s complete blind spot when it came to human emotions, “It makes you strong. It makes you work harder and fight harder and it makes you live and love more fiercely.”

“But it deepens the pain.” Sherlock countered, tears in his eyes again.

“But it also can increase your happiness.” John pushed a stray lock of hair out of Sherlock’s pale face and planted a kiss on his forehead.

The rain pounded relentlessly against the window and thunder grumbled in the distance.

John drifted off a mere ten minutes later, still holding tightly to Sherlock, in an almost vice-like grip.

Sherlock lay awake, fighting the war in his head, raging constantly and not allowing sleep. He was exhausted from his emotional upheaval earlier and although it took him a few hours, he too finally drifted off, to the sound of London drowning.

 

He awoke in a cold sweat, his hair pasted to his skin and shaking uncontrollably. Someone was saying his name and his eyes flew open. He was trembling like mad and his muscles were wound tight as he gripped the bed sheets.

“Sherlock, sweetheart.” Came John’s soothing voice.

Sherlock sighed, John. Sweet John, his anchor, his rock, his guiding light. He conjured any ridiculous metaphor that would fit this man. He managed to pull Sherlock from his nightmare, of the girls’ stringy hair, there was so much of it. And of the ice cold water, the freezing limbs on fire, god her face was so pale in death, her eyes so scared and unseeing-

“Sherlock. You’re hyperventilating, you need to breathe.” Doctor John was back in full force and pulling Sherlock’s face toward his. Sherlock finally met his eyes and looked into a sea of grey, John’s gaze looked calm yet crinkled with worry. He hated being the cause of those worry lines. He attempted a smile and it turned out more of a grimace.

“There you go. That’s it. Just breathe.”

He did as the doctor ordered, feeling a red flush cropping up on his neck. He made to get out of bed, mumbling about the bathroom.

John tried to stop him with gentle hands and a soft voice but Sherlock shook him off. Humiliation forced him out of bed, away from comfort and into the bathroom. He flicked on the angry lights and they pierced his eyes. He squinted at his reflection in the mirror and saw that a look of horror still traced in his face.

_ Ridiculous _ . He mentally berated himself, there is no need for that. He schooled his face into a neutral mask and washed his hands, still somewhat convinced they he was drowning in the Thames.

_ Pull yourself together. _ He grinded his teeth and willed his hands to stop trembling. He felt so weak, so fragile and feeble. He was wearing thin and he knew it, could feel it in himself, could see it in John’s slumped shoulders or his half-hearted smiles. He probably hated Sherlock for putting him through this every time a difficult case came their way. Which, granted wasn’t often because he was a genius who could solve anything.

_ But you couldn’t save one little girl _ . The sinister voice in his head supplied. He gripped his hair and tugged until it hurt.

“Sherlock-“ A soft knock came at the door. Sherlock jumped, despite being aware of John’s soft footfalls mere moments before. His transport was letting him down once again.

He wished he had a cigarette.

“You okay?” John’s small voice asked.

“Yes.” Sherlock bit out, “fine.”

He heard John sigh on the other side and a small thud meant he had leaned against the door.

“Be out in a minute.” He promised, hoping John would go away and forget his episode.

But he was in no such luck. When he returned to the bedroom he found him sitting on the edge of his- their bed, and Sherlock groaned internally. John had his doctor face fixed securely on.

“You want to talk about it?”

“Nope.” Sherlock popped the ‘p’ and moved toward John, “but I would like to kiss you.” He grabbed John’s face and pulled him into a kiss, somewhat harder than he intended.

John squirmed a bit and pulled away, “Sher- hang on, are you sure? Now?”

“There is no way I’m sleeping, so it’s either this or back to the case.”

John traced his neck with his hand, the other hand pulling him closer by the waist.

“Okay.” He agreed softly.

Sherlock kissed him hungrily once more. It was with approaching desperation that Sherlock kissed his lover. He needed to feel something other than this gnawing guilt. He straddled John and sunk into the kiss, their mouths desperate for one another, as though both were seeking oxygen that only the other could supply.

John was better than a cigarette.

His hands wandered down to John’s back, tracing his hips. He tugged at the bottom of John’s jumper and pulled it over his head, John pulled out of the kiss, “Sherlock-“

Sherlock kissed him again. He needed it. He needed a fix and John would do. In fact, John was better than any drug out there. He was Sherlock’s fix.

Both men were already half hard as Sherlock sucked on John’s neck, and slowly licked his way down John’s chest. His hands searching. His fingers tracing the scar on John’s shoulder and his tongue still working his way down John’s chest, and over his left nipple.

John let out a low moan and arched his back, gripping Sherlock’s hips and pressing his erection into Sherlock’s. Sherlock inhaled sharply and rocked his hips forward, sucking John’s nipple.

John gasped and rocked into Sherlock again. The soft fabric of their pyjama trousers stretching as they pushed against one another. John’s hands wandered up Sherlock’s back and he pulled off the jumper Sherlock was wearing, so now both men were shirtless.

Sherlock finished his work on John’s chest and grinded against him again, electricity sparking between them, the rain hammering around them.

Lightning gashed the sky in electric light and illuminated their forms. Sherlock saw John flash brightly and he looked so beautiful that Sherlock nearly whimpered. His emotions were exposed and raw and he felt them coursing through his chest, corroding his stomach.

He wrapped his arms around John and thrusted into John again. They kissed wildly, passionately, and with strong purpose, both trying to capture one another’s mouth.

Sherlock felt John’s hand wander down his chest and he mumbled in between kisses, “let me. Let me, Sherlock.”

His hand danced between Sherlock’s naked abdomen and the waistband of his trousers. His hand slid under the soft fabric and reached Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock moaned and pressed his forehead against Johns. John stroked him slowly at first, making Sherlock wine and grip John’s sandy hair in his hands. John’s hand ghosted over the tip and Sherlock tightened, his form stiff.

“Relax,” John breathed, “I’ve got you.”

“John.” Sherlock uttered.

John picked up the pace slightly, and Sherlock was kissing him again. Sherlock was so hard in John’s hand and pulsing, nearly on the tipping point.

Sherlock inhaled sharply through their kiss, air puffing into John’s mouth. Sherlock’s mouth opened wide as John’s hand moved faster and faster.

“John.” Sherlock repeated, their mouths inches apart. “John, I’m-“

Sherlock gasped and the sentence died in his throat, as he stiffened and jerked against John’s hand. John helped him through and slowly removed his hand.

Sherlock was gasping for breath and he buried his head in the crook of John’s neck, letting out a low, shaky breath.

His emotions and feelings pounded through him, like a pressure valve about to explode. He bit his lip and heaved in heavy breaths. He started shaking again.

“Shhhh, it’s okay. I’ve got you.” John said, pulling Sherlock closer.

“John.”

“I know.”

Sherlock gasped against him, head buried in his neck and eyes closed shut, against the emotion. It was so powerful, the love he had for the man before him, that he felt he would surely crumble. It scared him to death how much he loved this man and how much he felt. The sheer will of emotion seemed stronger than Sherlock and he shook with fright. These emotions will consume him.

He trembled in John’s arms, shaky breaths issuing from his lips.

“I love you, John.” Sherlock finally uttered, barely above a whisper.

John pulled him closer, “I love you too, Sherlock. More than you know.”

Perhaps they would both crumble, together.

John untangled himself from Sherlock and Sherlock let out a small whine. 

“Just a minute, let me get you a change of clothes.” John whispered, and Sherlock watched vaguely as John rummaged through the drawers until he found Sherlock a clean pair of sweatpants. He took off Sherlock’s own trousers and pants and pulled on the new ones. Then, he crumbled up the mess and placed them in the hamper to deal with in the morning.

He laid beside Sherlock and pulled him in close, stroking his hair as Sherlock took in the smell of John, burying his nose in the crook of John’s neck.

They stayed like that until Sherlock’s breathing evened out and he planted a kiss onto John’s neck.

His eyes were heavy from crying and weary from what little sleep he had been getting. His mind wandered aimlessly back to the horrors of that day and images accosted his mind for a moment.

“Sherlock-“ he heard a voice, as though from far away.

“Sherlock, you with me?”

Sherlock shook again, still in John’s arms.

“Sherlock, can you talk to me?”

Sherlock finally drew himself away from the darkness just as another flash of lightning illuminated the room. He looked up at John, vibrant in light.

“I’m frightened by what I feel.” He whispered.

John’s eyes creased with worry in the darkness and Sherlock closed his eyes too it.

“It’s okay, Sherlock. You’re allowed to feel. It’s normal to feel.”

Sherlock didn’t reply.

After a long pause Sherlock glanced down at John’s trousers.

“John, we never… dealt with your…” He gestured to John’s half-hard on but John chuckled and shrugged, “it’s alright. That’s not what I need right now. I need you to lay with me and try to get some sleep.”

Sherlock’s eyelids drooped at the thought and he and John sunk into the warm comfort of the bed, John pulling the duvet over them.

“Sleep now, Sherlock.” John muttered, planting a kiss atop his head.

Sherlock drifted off first, clearly exhausted from the extensive release of emotions. It scared John as he held Sherlock protectively in his arms, as though this would screen him from his own horrors and demons.

“Sherlock, I’d be lost without you.” John said, even though he knew he was sleeping.

Soon, John drifted off as well to the sound of the rain drumming and water lapping the streets, hoping the new day would bring an end to the storm.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked it! Thanks for reading and please tell me what you think!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I was taught that the way of progress was neither swift nor easy."  
> -Marie Curie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An apology chapter for having to wait so long for the last one. I wrote this a few weeks ago so I only needed edits done.  
> A thousands thanks to my editor- Arden! <3

Two days since and no one had been killed.

Sherlock worked throughout the day, often going out for hours on end to search the streets of London, traipsing through the city and hoping that she would divulge her secrets.

He finally got in touch with the Homeless Network and they gave him a name, scribbled on a tiny piece of paper in sloppy handwriting.

Sebastian Moran.

Sherlock smiled, texting Lestrade.

He had sent John to talk to the victims of the families- if anyone could make them talk, it was John. He was kind enough to understand when to push and when to back off.

Moran. Now he could track him down, and hopefully Moriarty in the process.

He did so enjoy a battle of wits and Moran proved to be an exciting one, ruthless maybe, but still thrilling.

He must have been one of the snipers at the pool, perhaps holding John’s life in his hands. The thought made his stomach churn.

This man may be less intelligent than Moriarty, but he was more brutal. Moriarty had said he didn’t like to get his hands dirty.

Sherlock grinned all the same.

Progress.

The rain had stopped.

Sherlock went to Barts that afternoon and walked down to the morgue, coat flapping behind him.

Molly wheeled out the body for him.

“Hi.” She said shyly. Sherlock did not respond. He lifted the sheet from the body and suppressed a wince. The girl’s body was still relatively fresh and she was as she looked when she had died, pale and frightened.

He set to work, collecting samples and avoiding Molly’s sympathetic gaze. He despised sympathy, epically when it was directed at him.

After long minutes of silence Sherlock spoke,

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Look at me like I’m the one lying on a slab. I do not need your sympathy and certainly do not want your company.”

She looked like she wanted to say something but thought better of it, settling on huffing indigently and turning to leave.

“You don’t have to be so rude all the time.” She replied, sounding choked.

“And I don’t have to keep talking to you, do I?” He hissed without looking up.

She scoffed and left the room.

Sherlock enjoyed the silence, allowing his mind to concentrate.

He closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair, the hard metal pressing on his back. He steepled his thin fingers together and dove into his mind palace, for there he could put the pieces together, connect the missing links, and corner Moran.

His mind fixated on the pool, taking in the surroundings, the entries, the exits, the sound of doors slamming. One door, in fact. There had only been one door the first time Morarity left, before coming back around. So the snipers hadn’t left.

Moran had said to him, “It’s been a while” so clearly he was one of the snipers at the pool. They had watched as Sherlock had ripped the bomb off John, watched as they spoke to one another, their voices hushed and thankful. He had seen Sherlock’s weakness. Moriarty already knew he could kidnap John to get to Sherlock, but Moran knew he had cared. Knew he had been inches from kissing John had Moriarty not stormed back in. He wasn’t changing his mind, because Moriarty never changed his mind, he always had a plan formulated and he wasn’t changeable. Moran had seen Sherlock’s weakness and he must have told Moriarty. Then they had set this elaborate plan, this marvelously gruesome distraction to try and tear Sherlock apart.

 

Someone shook him, shattering the walls around him, and they fell away brick by brick.

“Sherlock, Jesus.”  

He opened his eyes and looked round. John’s face came into view.

“John.” He growled, “I was working.”

“Yeah, for about 8 hours you’ve been here. It’s nearly 10.”

“Really?” Time had sulked away it seemed.

Sherlock blinked around and caught John’s worried gaze.

“Oh don’t look at me like that.” Sherlock chastised.

“Like what? You’ve been sitting here all evening, you’ve barely spoken to anyone since the other day at the Thames. You won’t eat, you won’t sleep, and I’m afraid, Sherlock. I’m afraid I’m losing you to this case.”

“I told you coming into this John, sometimes I don’t talk for days on end, and you accepted those terms. I am always consistent in my behaviour during a case.”

“Yes, but this is different.” John countered, “this is actually getting to you.”

Sherlock scoffed, “No it’s not John.”

John gave his best ‘don’t lie to me’ face and Sherlock sighed, standing and cracking his stiff back.

“Let’s go.” He ushered John out of the room.

In the cab, Sherlock tapped away at his mobile.

They got into their flat once more and Sherlock paced the room,

“Did you get any information from the victim’s families?”

“Not much, just that their daughters were kidnapped, walking home, at work, at school. All seemingly disappeared in public, but no one saw how they were taken.”

“And they were all killed in different areas than where they were taken, some were even across town, I know this John. I mean, any enemies, or connections to those around them, I need some sort of idea that they were around someone who could have helped them get kidnapped, or something, John!” Before he knew it he was shouting, his hands balled into angry fists and his eyes popping.

John blinked at him, huffing, “Now hang on a minute don’t bite my head off. If you’d stop shouting, I’m getting to it.”

Sherlock felt himself deflate slightly, perhaps he was a bit exhausted.

“Not good?” Sherlock asked John.  _ I’m sorry _

“Bit not good, yeah.” John replied.  _ Apology accepted. _

John sank onto his armchair and began listing off contacts and names he had written down in his notebook, Sherlock dismissed nearly all of them at once.

“Wait, go back-“ Sherlock interrupted half-way though John’s list, “What did you say, what professor?”

“A Professor Jeinkins at Cambridge taught her-“

“Oh of course.” Sherlock sighed, realisation dawning on his face, “yes, I see. Very clever. So he knew and he used Jeinkins to get to her. He knew of the connection.”

“What connection?”

“To me.”

John cocked an eyebrow at him, “You?”

“Yes. Professor Jeinkins taught one of my maths courses.”

“What? And you think Moriarty knew that?”

“Of course he knew, it would be a simple enough deduction to guess my choice of University, and from there all he would need to do is look through the student archives and find my name and course schedule. Then select a student from his class. So obviously the others have to connect with people I knew. Did you see the other victims and do they have people who could have known them, no wait, stop, shut up.” Sherlock froze, fingers pressed to his lips, sitting on the sofa and pulling his knees to his chest, mumbling to himself.

 

John watched Sherlock’s lips move and sighed, he wouldn’t be getting anything out of him tonight, probably.

John moved to make tea and sat in his chair, pulling out a book and reading, eyes falling to the detective every now and then.

John’s mobile rang a few minutes later and he grabbed it. Sherlock didn’t seem to notice, his eyes now shut, probably deep in his mind palace again.

“Hello?”

“Doctor Watson.” Mycroft’s cool voice replied.

“Oh. To what do I, uh… why are you calling?”

“I’m calling about Sherlock. He would get suspicious if I called you hours after the incident and I didn’t want to frustrate him further. But of course I know that he took a swim in the Thames to try and save a little girl. Quite a show, for him. I believe you are bringing something out in him.”

“Like what?” John huffed.

“A heart, perhaps.” Mycroft replied thoughtfully, “How is he?”

John moved upstairs to his bedroom, just in case Sherlock wasn’t as deep in thought as John suspected.

“He’s… I don’t know. Shouldn’t you just ask him? I think he’d kill me if I talked to you.”

“I’m not asking for details, Doctor Watson, I just need to know that he is not blaming himself for what happened.”

“How could he not? He thinks he’s responsible.” John remarked, “And if you think I’m not taking care of him-“

“I know you are, John, I don’t doubt that. Whatever… connection you too have seems to be affecting him positively. I mean he internalises these things and I do not wish for him to feel as though he has to be cold and indifferent.”

“He has me, Mycroft.” John said simply.

“Is he resting?”

“You know how he is on these cases.”

“But he needs to be eating.”

“Jesus, you think I don’t know how to take care of him after all this time-“

“You’ve only known him for 2 years John, I am infinitely more aware of the on goings in Sherlock’s mind.”

“And yet you never come here yourself and put the pieces back together.” John barked, “You are always looking over his shoulder but you never interact. I’m here, for him, all the bloody time. When he wont eat, or sleep, or he won't talk to me for days, I am here.”

Mycroft was silent for a moment, “Whatever you think is best, Doctor Watson. Now in other news, I believe I have information on the man on the bridge.”

“You mean Moran? Yeah Sherlock already found out who he is.”

“And I have discovered the location of his potential next target. My network has discovered that Moran is indeed honing in on his next target, set to attack some time tomorrow. However they cannot pinpoint his location.”

“Wait, hang on. Let me get Sherlock.” John trotted down the stairs to find Sherlock taking the kettle off the stove. He glanced around when John flew into the room.

John put Mycroft on speaker.

“Sherlock-“ Mycroft began, “I have information on Moran.”

“What is it?” he drawled.

“There is a family of significance coming in from Scotland. You remember them, Sherlock. Mummy and Father invited them to a dinner party the week before you went off to University.”

Sherlock made a noncommittal noise of agreement.

“They are a family of very high importance to the British Government and are in town for a meeting in parliament, to negotiate a new peace treaty between two… sensitive parties.”

“As incredibly vague as you always are brother, do get to the point, you are boring me with you antics.” Sherlock sighed.

“My point, dear brother, is that I have discovered through my contacts and a few, willing negotiators, that the sniper, this Moran, you are looking for is planning to kill the family tomorrow.”

“And you called to ask how he was?!” John gasped, “This seemed a tad more important!”

“Agreed, stop prying.” Sherlock replied, “Text me the information, and if my suspicions are correct, which they always are, I shall have him in custody tomorrow.” Sherlock hung up John’s phone and his eyes lit up, “His slipped up, John, he’s made a grave error.”

“And what’s that?” John asked, he couldn’t help feeling giddy at Sherlock’s excitement. They were getting close.

“He thinks killing people I’m connected to will elicit some reaction in me, but he made a grave error in thinking that I would care.”

“But… you do. Don’t you?”

“Not enough to stop me in my tracks as it does for most of you funny little humans. Always paralysed by fear or remorse or some other useless emotion.”

John decidedly didn’t mention the breakdown he had had just two nights previous and sighed, “Okay, let’s get to work then.”

Sherlock snatched John’s computer from the desk and opened his email, to find Mycroft’s encrypted file.

John sighed, guessing that neither of them were getting the sleep they so desperately needed tonight. He instead poured them two cups of tea and went to sit next to Sherlock on the couch, handing him his cup and hugging his waist, planting a kiss on his neck and nuzzling his head into Sherlock’s neck as he looked through the file.

“Ah yes.” Sherlock mumbled, setting his mug down and glancing at John, “You should rest.” He told him.

“So should you, but we both know that’s not going to happen.”

Sherlock chuckled in agreement and pulled out his mobile from his trousers pocket.

“Who are you calling at this hour?” John asked disapprovingly.

“Lestrade.”

John sighed as the mobile hummed in Sherlock’s ears.

“What, Sherlock for christ’s sake.” Lestrade’s voice filtered through the phone where John could hear.

“Ah good you’re awake.”

John snickered as Lestrade responded, “I am now.”

“I have received information from Mycroft-“

“You talked to Mycroft tonight? Is he uh… doing alright?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes at John and responded, “Will you stop inquiring about my brother’s well-being and ask him to dinner. He needs a goldfish.”

“A- what, no I just-“

“Never mind, it’s unimportant I’ve already deleted it. I have information about Moran’s next victims and we need to take every precaution against him.”

Sherlock explained how he was planning on killing the Scottish family and the information Mycroft had sent on their location.

“They are being put up at The Connaught.”

John whistled.

“It’s only a few minutes from here and we need to make absolutely sure that they are protected, as my brother says, they are delegates of high stature, not Moran’s usual target but I digress. We’ll need your least annoying officers to canvas the area.”

“Now?” John heard Lestrade ask.

“No, it can wait ‘till morning, but I need them there at 5am. In the meantime, I need to conduct a foolproof plan to catch this man, and I don’t need any of your officers mucking it up, so if you feel the Yard’s canvas group is lacking imbeciles and need Anderson and Donovan there then keep them out of my way, understood?”

John chuckled again and closed his eyes, nuzzling his way further into Sherlock’s neck, his longer hairs tickling his cheek.

John dozed off, slipping in and out of consciousness as Sherlock’s deep baritone vibrated in his chest and lulled John to sleep.

 

Sherlock called John’s name softly some four hours later.

“John. Bed. Come on.” He prodded John’s shoulder and John’s eyes open blearily. He looked up at Sherlock and grinned sleepily, his face reddening.

“Sorry…”

“No need.” Sherlock smiled gently at him, “But perhaps we would be more comfortable in the bedroom.”

“Perhaps.” John agreed, planting a tiny kiss on Sherlock’s lips before standing and stretching, his bones creaking. Sherlock gazed down his squat form, taking in the curves his arse made and small amount of skin exposed on his hip when he stretched, shirt riding up.

“Let’s go.” John pulled Sherlock to his feet, leaving the laptop abandoned on the couch and climbing the stairs.

“Did you get everything set?”

“Yes. I calculated every possibility, every outcome and am prepared to catch him in the act. I will explain everything tomorrow when you are in a fit state to remember.”    

“Good, alright. You are sleeping too.” John ordered.

Sherlock murmured in slight agreement before they both changed sleepily and collapsed into bed.

John was asleep in minutes, while Sherlock watched him slumber, slowly falling into his own sleep, allowing it to take him into its clutches.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all of your support! Next chapter I'm hoping will come out soon!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Inevitably, underlying instabilities begin to appear." - Ian Malcolm (Michael Crichton).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been a while! Alas, that is how life works. But here you go!

They arrived at the hotel at 5am, the sun barely touching the sky and spreading forth into the painted morning. John and Sherlock both clutched mugs of coffee and Sherlock ordered officers from Scotland Yard around, all dressed in civilians clothing.

“Don’t assume anything, our shooter will likely take his position in the building opposite.” He directed his gaze to the smaller flats opposite. His words circled in the chilled morning air around them.

Sherlock bounded across the street, Lestrade and John in tow.

The day sulked in dull grey; the weak sun unable to penetrate the dense clouds. Sherlock walked to where Lestrade’s men had already cleared the building of disgruntled workers, replacing the building with the officers in civilians clothing. 

“I’ll be on the other side on the likely chance he’s in that building.” Sherlock told Lestrade, “Get the rest of your men out of here and we will begin. Come along John.”

John trotted behind him.

They headed across the street. Sherlock had calculated the relative distance from all the shots of the previous victims to estimate how far away Moran could be to make the shot. He eliminated the buildings further down the street, as they were far too low to the ground and far from the relative distance of the floor the target was staying on.

“John, you and I will wait inside, Mycroft will keep his eye on the security camera’s in both locations, on the off chance that he went into the building with the inadequate workers of Scotland Yard, Mycroft will let us know.”

“Good, alright.”

They sat in one of the higher rooms that could overlooked The Connaught, to which they could see the family, a son and daughter, unpacking.

“Are you alright?” John asked after a moment's silence.

Sherlock glanced his direction and merely hummed his response, “Working, John.”

“I know, but… when do you draw the line, Sherlock? When do you tell yourself enough is enough?”

“I don’t.” Sherlock scoffed, “It’s not enough until he’s caught and Moriarty is taken down, bit by bit. But he’s clever John and this is providing some interest for me.”

John sighed, “But you need to make sure he doesn’t take you down in the process.”

Sherlock chuckled darkly, “He won’t, John. He doesn’t know how to break me, because I cannot break.”

John shook his head, “I think he does. He did kidnap me at the pool.”

Sherlock glanced at him, “Yes, but that’s different. He was toying with us.”

John looked unconvinced as Sherlock continued his scrutiny of the window.

His eyes widened and he nodded his head to the building opposite, “There. He’s setting up, interesting choice saying as I thought he’d choose this one. Probably considered the wind and the angle is better there.” He called Mycroft.

“Are you getting this?” He asked.

“Yes, Sherlock. It’s Moran. Room 1312. He’s setting up his weapon, he seems oblivious of the security you placed.”

Sherlock pulled out his walkie-talkie and pressed the button, “Lestrade, your men, now. He’s on the 13th floor. Room 1312.”

“Got it.” Lestrade’s gruff voice came in.

Sherlock motioned his hand to John’s, “Your binoculars, John.”

John pulled them out and Sherlock peered through them, mumbling under his breath, “Something's not right, he is a clever man run by someone even smarter. Moriarty clearly set up this operation, he would notice the security, that’s why he should have come to this building, he should have been here. What is he thinking?”

“Maybe they’re not as smart as we give them credit for.” John remarked.

“No, that’s not it.” Sherlock’s eyes scanned Moran’s form, setting up a long sniper rifle as the door banged open. Moran pulled something from his pocket just as Sherlock gasped,

“Oh. I see. Clever, it didn’t matter where his position was, John watch him.” He shoved the binoculars into his partner’s hand and yelled into his walkie talkie.

“Lestrade! He must have another hidden weapon, don’t let him-“

But John yelled “He’s got a switch. He’s going to press it, Sherlock–”

The Connaught exploded in front of them, a cacophony of noise and sound erupted as the building collapsed from the top down, bricks cascading and exploding in every direction. The pair gazed in horror as the hotel collapsed, fires erupting and distant screams penetrated John’s senses.

“Oh god.” He murmured.

“Dammit.” Sherlock growled and stumbled from the room, running down the stairs. John tore off after him, his heart beating in his throat, fear threatening to consume him. That damn explosion sounded like grenades raining from the Afghan sky. But John pushed it out of his mind and ran after his partner. Sherlock’s coat tail flapped in the breeze as he hurtled out the door and across the street, toward the building where Lestrade and his men were stationed, weaving through the smouldering remains of the once lavish hotel. Sherlock wrenched open the door and came face-to-face with Moran, in handcuffs and grinning broadly.

“What do you think? Beautiful, isn’t it?” Moran nodded to the crumbled mess.

Sherlock glared at him coolly, face void of it’s previous terror.

“So that was your plan was it, a grand finale. A fanfare of sorts?”

“You think I’m finished? You think I’m done?” Moran cackled, eyes glimmering with malice.

“You are finished. I made sure of that.” Sherlock stiffened.

“And you made sure of that as well. All those lives, Sherlock. All of those people. I would check the body count before you feel proud of your accomplishments.”

Sherlock growled and advanced but John held him back.

Moran merely laughed, “And look after your pet. He could be next, you know. Anyone of you could.”

“Let’s go, you bastard.” Lestrade shoved him away, looking sickened.

Sherlock murmured something under his breath John couldn’t quite make out, over the sound of sirens approaching and the smouldering building behind him.  

Sherlock headed off toward the building and John marched after him.

He found Sherlock moments later, arguing with a man from the fire department.

“I need access. I need to know.” Sherlock growled.

“I’m sorry, sir. But the building is still unsafe.” The fireman replied.

“You will let me in.” Sherlock commanded.

“Come on, Sherlock.” John put a hand on the small of his back and pulled him away, throwing the fireman an apologetic look. “Let’s go talk to Lestrade.”

Sherlock allowed John to drag him away, toward Lestrade’s police car.

“Bloody hell.” Lestrade murmured to them.

“Where are you taking him?” Sherlock asked, his voice a mere growl.

“To our holding cells.”

“No, we need to do better than that. Take him to Mycroft.” Sherlock corrected him.

Lestrade looked affronted, “You don’t think I’ll be careful.”

“Do you have anyone in the car with him? No. So already you are not being careful. This man is more ruthless and more dangerous than you know and he is backed by a napoleon of crime, a mastermind. I need you to think for two seconds about the repercussions of his escape, which is inevitable, but we need to try and prevent it from happening.”

“He’s not going to escape, Sherlock. We just caught him committing an act of terrorism. He’s going to a high-security prison, forever.”

“Not likely, not with his connections. This isn’t over.” Sherlock hissed. He strode toward Lestrade’s car and pulled open the back door.

“I’m going with him.” Sherlock said to the pair, they both gaped at him.

“Sherlock, you don’t need to- he won’t get away.” Lestrade insisted

“I’m not taking that risk. We’re taking him to Mycroft.”

“But you shouldn’t ride with that lunatic-“ Lestrade began but Sherlock had already grabbed Lestrade’s keys and opened the passenger door. Moran was handcuffed in the back, looking smug.

Lestrade turned to John, shaking his head, “I guess you should follow us in the police escort.”

John sighed, wishing he could ride with Sherlock but knowing Sherlock wouldn’t let him. John nodded and touched Lestrade’s shoulder, “Be careful, and make sure Moran doesn’t talk to him that much.”

Lestrade huffed, the air swirling around him, “Okay, John. See you soon.”

 

Sherlock climbed into the passenger’s seat, fingering John’s gun in his pocket.

“Ah, come to take me to your brother, then? I’d love an escort.”

Sherlock didn’t speak, or look at him. He watched John and Lestrade converse before Lestrade got into the driver’s seat.

“Well, this is fun.” Moran commented.

“Shut your mouth.” Lestrade commanded, “I don’t want to hear another word.”

“Or what, you’ll arrest me?”

Lestrade didn’t respond but turned the ignition and they turned away from the destruction.

They rode in silence, besides Moran snickering.

They got nearly four blocks before Moran spoke up again.

“You know, Holmes. You seem to have a pretty keen attachment to that doctor of yours.”

Lestrade hissed in anger but neither of them spoke.

“I suppose you two are gonna have a good shag once you drop me off to your pompous big brother, aren’t you? Gonna fuck your pet.”

Sherlock’s shoulders tensed and Moran chuckled,

“How can anyone stand to be in the same room as you, especially the same bed? He must really be mad to fuck someone like you.”

“Shut your mouth, or I will gag you.” Lestrade warned, hands gripping the steering wheel.

Moran plowed on, “So Watson is the only one who can control you huh? He can pull you back from the ledge when you oh so want to fall.”

“and-“ Moran added, “The boss knew that. That’s why he kidnapped the good doctor in the first place. I wanted to blow his brains out, but boss wanted him alive. A shame too, he would look so pretty painted all over that white shirt of yours, Holmes. Maybe I still will, just to -“

Sherlock pulled the gun and turned off the safety, aiming it directly at Moran’s head.

“Sherlock!” Lestrade warned.

“Shut up. I will shoot you.” Sherlock said, his eyes cold as stone.  

“No you won’t.” Moran laughed, “Or he’ll make your little playmate suffer before he kills ‘em.”

Lestrade stopped the car so abruptly that they lurched forward and the escort behind them had to stop as well.

“I told you to shut your mouth!” Lestrade yelled, his face rosy with anger. He got out of the car, pulling a strip of cloth from the hem of his shirt with a mighty tug and the cloth came free. He opened the back door, gagging Moran with the cloth.

“I said, shut up!”

Sherlock still had his gun trailed on Moran, a smirk playing at his lips.

The other police cars had pulled over and John ran out, worry etched onto his face.

“Sherlock!”

“It’s alright, John. Moran was running his mouth and Lestrade put an end to it.”

John eyed Sherlock. His eyes hinting at a madness he had not seen there in ages, not since they first met.

A black car pulled up beside them and two suited men got out, Mycroft bringing up the rear.

“You couldn’t manage just getting to my office?”

Sherlock got out of the car and stowed the gun away.

“We’ll take him from here.” Mycroft said, as Lestrade pulled Moran gruffly out of the car, beaming when he saw Mycroft.

“Sorry, had to stop and teach him some manners.” Lestrade said, shoving him into the hands of the suited men, who placed him in the car.

Mycroft twirled his umbrella against the pavement and looked to Lestrade, then back to Sherlock and John.

“We will discuss this later.” He nodded to the group before getting back in the car and setting off.

Sherlock stared after them, squinting down the road.

He pulled out his phone and shot off a text.

“Who is that to?” John asked him, inching closer and looking into his face.

“Mycroft. His men need to be on high alert, saying as Moriarty’s right hand man has been captured. I guarantee Moriarty will not be pleased and will attempt to break him out. However, I believe Moran wanted to get caught.”

“Why?” Lestrade asked.

Sherlock sighed, irritation crossing his smooth face.

“Because,” he began, as though explaining something to a child who was very slow, “he is a brute but he’s not stupid. He did not even attempt to flee the scene and I assume he didn’t resist arrest-“

“No, actually. Now that you mention it, he didn’t.”

“Exactly. He wanted to be caught, to  acknowledge the incident as his own. And I was so stupid. I should have seen it. But it missed it. And he did all of this to taunt me. To get closer to me, he knew I would want to ride back with him to keep an eye on him. This whole bombing was for me. He wanted to get a reaction out of me and I was thick enough to fall for it. Stupid.”

“Wait, no. Hang on.” Lestrade faced him, looking perplexed, “You’re saying that this… all of this was the lunatic’s way of getting in your head. Are you really that pigheaded to think that this was was all about you?”

“I think it was because of me that those people are dead. I should have been paying more attention, but I didn’t think he would go to such lengths. I underestimated him. Assumed he would only take one victim, and that was a sacrifice I was willing to make. But he took the drastic measure and went for the grand scene. I should have seen it coming-“

“Sherlock, c’mon, you can’t predict everything. You’re not psychic. This wasn’t your fault.” John replied, his tone serious as he gently grabbed Sherlock’s arm. He noticed that the man was trembling slightly, not enough for anyone to notice but John.

“Let’s go home. Come on.” John tugged at his arm, and surprisingly, Sherlock followed.

“I’ll need more information tomorrow.” Lestrade called after them.

They found one of Mycroft’s cars waiting for them, and for once in his life, John was grateful for the overstep.

Sherlock was quiet on the way back, his knee bouncing in place, his fingers drumming on the seat beside him until John grabbed his hand and squeezed. Sherlock applied similar pressure but wouldn’t look at him.

They made it back to Baker Street and once inside, Sherlock stopped in the hall, leaning heavily against the wall and puffing air out of his lungs. John stood beside him, arm snaking around his middle.

“I’m sorry.” John whispered, pressing his face into the crook of Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock dropped his head atop Johns and heaved another great sigh.

“Nothing to be sorry about John.”

“But… I know you… well… I think we need a lie-in for the rest of the day.” John remarked, lips ghosting over Sherlock’s neck.

Sherlock hummed and he and John made the slow trek up the stairs, glued to each other’s sides.

Sherlock sank into John’s bed, having stripped down to nothing but his boxers and John did the same. They curled together, pulling the duvet over them, creating a bundle of warmth and security.

Sherlock’s shaky breath tickled John’s neck and John pulled his partner close.

“Oh my brilliant detective. You can’t save them all.”

“And yet I feel a great need to.” Sherlock replied, his voice a mere whisper.

“And that’s what makes you so good at what you do.”

“I don’t feel as though that is true on days like these.”

John sighed in response, planting a kiss to the side of his temple, curling hands through his soft curls and caressing.

“I love you, no matter what. Remember that.”

“And I you, John.” Sherlock mumbled, his eyes beginning to droop.

Content to lay in the warmth of one another, John watched Sherlock drop off to sleep, as London swirled around them in vibrant activity. Soon enough, John drifted off as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and as always I appreciate your feedback!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “But nothing makes a room feel emptier than wanting someone in it.”  
> ― Calla Quinn, All the Time

Sebastian Moran sat on a cold metal chair, staring idly at the wall. His gag had been removed yet his was still handcuffed, the cool metal biting at his raw flesh.  
The door opened with a loud creak and the wing-tipped shoes and point of the umbrella announced the arrival of Mycroft Holmes. The elder Holmes brother loomed over Moran, his shadow daunting in the single light of the room. Neither of them spoke as Mycroft took the chair opposite him. The cold silence was a bitter tension they could taste on their lips.

Mycroft spoke first, his voice cool and his face indifferent.

“Why the fanfare? Why go through all this trouble, simply to end up in my hands. Again.”

“Maybe I enjoy your company.” Drawled Moran, his red beard tugging at the ends of his mouth as he drew a cruel smile.

“I assume Moriarty has a plan of getting you out of here. A connection to get you released. He’ll have threatened someone no doubt.”

“Yeah, well. The guy is a man of his word. And he told me I wouldn’t be staying long. That’s why I didn’t pack an overnight bag.”

“Well, perhaps you should have.” Mycroft stated, putting his briefcase on the table between them and pulling out a manilla envelope.

“Ah yes, I remember this part. What deal have you got for me now? I ain’t workin’ for ya if that’s what you ‘fink.” 

“I do not hire guns to do my work for me.” Mycroft replied. He pulled the papers out and slid them into Moran’s view.

“These are the terms and conditions of your execution. Should you accept them, we will be done here.”

Moran raised an eyebrow at him, then gaffed, “Are you mental? You ‘fink I’ll agree to this?”

“I would read the fine print before dismissing it completely.” Mycroft folded his hands together and eyed Moran’s expression as his eyes scanned the first page.

Moran looked up at him, confusion crossing his face, “What do you want from me in return?”

Mycroft went on as though Moran haven’t spoken, “The ‘execution’ is an official order by the British government but because of the time spent in America and the people you killed there, it is handed off to the FBI and your case shall be dealt with in America. Wherein you are banned from reentering the UK upon penalty of death.”  
“So, what. I go to a federal prison in America and never come back ‘ere?”

“That is essentially the goal.”

“But don’t you want to weasel something out of me first? Something you can use against the boss?”

Mycroft suppressed a sigh, “Let me be very frank with you. I know all there is to know about Jim Moriarty. Nothing he does or will do surprises me in the slightest. But I’ll ask you this, how did your wife die?”

Moran palled, a scowl crossing his lips, “What are you–“

“Answer the question.” 

“She was shot, a robbery gone wrong. I would have died too had it not been for me boss comin’ at the right time. Saved my life, he did.”

“Did he? Because I have discovered a piece of information on that particular robbery. And no, he did not save your life. He had his men shoot your wife and then came flying in to supposedly save yours. A very heroic act on his part, don’t you think? Saving the day, showing his face, even though he never gets his hands dirty like that.”  
Moran didn’t reply, merely squinting at him, “You’re bluffing. Tryin’ to turn me against ‘im.”

“Believe what you will, but the last page of that envelope has all of the evidence you need. Feel free to peruse at your leisure.” Mycroft stood, turning his back on Moran, “The decision is up to you.”

•••••••

 

John had never experienced such silence in the flat before. Three days after the bombing and Sherlock didn’t speak a word to him. On a rare occasion, he would hum a response to John, but more often than not, he would ignore him completely. The detective merely sat on the couch, or at the table, pouring over the case file, locked away in his mind palace, or holed up in his room, a place he rarely went now because he slept in John’s room with him. He ate little and hadn’t slept in John’s bed since the night of the bombing. John kept record in his journals of what he ate and his parlour, more out of habit than knowing what to do for Sherlock. He wasn’t a therapist, he couldn’t get inside that massively complicated brain of his. 

John did what he could in these situations; he made tea and held his tongue. Sherlock would talk when he wanted, no point in rushing him. It was clear he blamed himself for the deaths of those in the hotel, claiming as he did that day that he should have seen it coming.

He seemed more energised in the mornings, jumping from one task to the other, pouring over information from the victims and pacing around the flat, his attitude nearly manic. In the afternoons, at around half-past eleven each day Sherlock would collapse onto the couch, completely listless. His eyes bloodshot.  
The weekend approached and he hadn’t stepped foot outside the flat for almost five days. His clothes were rumpled and John often saw him walking around in sweatpants and a baggy jumper.

John would squint at him and shake his head; perhaps this was his way of coping with a great defeat such as this. God knows John had his way of coping, most of which involved a bottle of Gin and crap telly.

They sat in the living room on a Saturday evening, the sun stretching through the clouds, painting them pink in the sunset. Their flat was warm enough that John stripped off his jumper, leaving him in a button-up plaid shirt that Sherlock tended to favour.

“You want tea?” John asked.

“No.” Sherlock replied dully.

John was nearly startled by Sherlock’s verbal response, regardless of his curtness. John looked over at him, sitting on the couch, scratching his arm, an almost restless look in his eyes.

“Sherlock?” Abandoning his tea, John knelt in front of him by the sofa, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Sherlock drawled.

John gritted his teeth. To hell with being nice, John had held his tongue for a whole week.

“Don’t you lie to me, Sherlock Holmes. You look awful.”

“M’fine.” Sherlock replied, reaching past John to the remote and flicking on the television.

The daily news flickered across the screen, BBC’s logo flashing before them.

“You’ve barely eaten, you’ve been holed up in your bloody room now for hours on end, you haven’t even spoken to me! I know you deal with things differently than most humans on this blasted planet, but I’m worried about you.” John’s tone turned to desperation, his anger deflating at the look on the detective's face. His sunken eyes held a dead look. His face crumpled, the frown lines severely pronounced and creasing his smooth skin.  
He stared ahead, eyes glued to the television screen.

“Are you even listening to me?” John asked, placing a hand on Sherlock’s knee.

Sherlock did not respond and John looked round to see a man covering a news report.

“The official number of people killed in the explosion at The Connaught is up to as many as forty, with nearly fifty injured, and more reports coming in. There is still no report of what caused the explosion and Scotland Yard has refused comment. Was this a an act of terrorism and where will it stop? More news after this.”  
A commercial flicked on about dental hygiene and John looked back to Sherlock. Sherlock stood up so abruptly that John jumped. Sherlock grabbed his coat and headed for the door.

“Where are you going?”

“Out.”

And he slammed the door before John could so much as blink.

Sherlock crossed the road and cut through the park, the night swallowed the sun and Sherlock barely noticed as the street lamps begin to flicker on around him. He widened his gait, trotting to the end of the park and down a long alley littered with rubbish and a few men huddled under blankets, coughing harshly.

Sherlock needed more. He had run out of his supply today and the drum of need and want thumped against his veins, pushing him onward. His mind wandered back to John, picturing the puzzled look on his face when Sherlock had left and snorted out a laugh. A moment later he felt sickened with himself.

John, sweet John Watson had allowed Sherlock into his life, when most people wanted nothing to do with him. And here he was, laughing at him.  
Sherlock snarled and stopped, leaning back heavily against the nearest wall. The acidity of guilt bubbled in his stomach and tore at his chest. Sherlock knew what John would do if he ever found out about the little drug habit he had developed. John would hate him for it, hate him for being so weak. He would hate him for being so dependent when John had worked so hard to keep Sherlock’s demons at bay.

But now… John couldn’t fix this. He didn’t want John fixing this because this was his and Moriarty’s fight. No matter what pawns the consulting criminal sent his way, there were all linked back to him. Moran was a beast on his own but Moriarty pulled the strings, and he knew that either way, one of them would end up dead. That’s the only way this could end well. And there was no way Sherlock would let John get caught in the crossfire.

Sherlock hated to admit it, but he was at a disadvantage against Moriarty. He had John. Moriarty now had collateral to use against him. He had already used John once and Sherlock was going to make sure that didn’t happen again.

Even if it meant losing John in the process.

Sherlock puffed out a sigh and set off again down another alley, as the need for a fix grew stronger. He pushed his guilt aside. The pull for the drugs was stronger than his morality at the moment.

He found a seller in his usual spot and made the deal, trading stability for sanity, he headed off again, tucking the bag in his coat and making his way back to Baker Street. John would already be asleep by the time he came back, too tired to wait up for him.

And as he suspected, John’s snores wafted from his room, out of his open door. Sherlock wanted to go up the stairs to him, collapse into bed beside him and hold him close. But the pull for the fix kept him rooted at the bottom of the stairs, looking upward toward the dark entrance to John’s bedroom. The stairs to his room gaped like a dark void that he could not enter.

He could not inflict himself on John like this. He needed to solve this case before anyone else got hurt, and the best way to do that was to get his brain active enough to do so.

He nearly flew to his room and took the drugs in a swift motion, ensuring the dosage was enough. He sighed as the cool liquid filled his veins and he began to pace around his room, thinking over Moran’s words, sorting, compiling all the information he had and piecing together any broken links.

His brain fired synapses quickly, deductions and theories threading their way through his mind like a thick stream. He closed his eyes to filter the thoughts, the drugs pushing them faster through his mind. He scribbled notes and pictured the scene at The Connaught, locating Moran’s position and narrowing down targets.  
However, all too soon the waves of fatigue began crashing along the shores of his frantic mind until his body won over and he crumpled on his bed, out cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm terribly sorry for the long wait! I'll be posting two chapters together as an apology. 
> 
> Thank you for sticking with this story! Sill much more to come. 
> 
> As always, your feedback is greatly appreciated!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What lies behind us and what lies before us are tiny matters compared to what lies within us.” – Ralph Waldo Emerson

**Present Day**

Sherlock dimly heard the front door slam as John left the flat. He stumbled to the window and saw John marching down the road, limping slightly. Sherlock was dimly aware that he caused that and a wave of guilt washed through his fogged mind. He needed a hit, and quickly. He walked around his room and pulled open his sock drawer, rifling through his sock index and pulling out a pair in the far back. He pulled out a small bag of white powder from the folds of the sock and a grin traced his lips.

He pulled his equipment down from the top of the dresser. Maybe if he solved this case John would be pleased enough to return. But he couldn’t focus on that now, not on the way John felt in his arms, or how he smelled of loose leaf tea and worn fabric. He pushed that aside and poured the powder into a beaker. He pulled out his lighter and held it to the bottom until it began to liquefy.  

He heard the door open and someone’s muffled voice. Mrs. Hudson’s and Lestrade. Sherlock groaned and hurriedly reached for the syringe that John had discarded on the nightstand. He filled the syringe with liquid as hurried footfalls hit the stairs two at a time.

“Sherlock!” Lestrade’s voice yelled. Sherlock rolled his sleeve and searched for a place the needle hadn’t already gone in. He pulled his belt taut over his upper arm with his teeth and pointed the needle toward his skin.

The door flew open and Lestrade made a noise of disgust.

“Sherlock, stop!”

He ran to him and pulled the needle out of his hand.

“Stop this, you git. What the hell?”

Sherlock looked into Lestrade’s angry eyes. “Give it back.”

“No. We’re getting you clean. And I suggest you listen to me if you want John back.”

Sherlock shrugged and Lestrade growled. He pulled Sherlock to his feet and dragged him out of the room.

“I’m calling the drugs squad. Do I need to lock you up for a night?”

Sherlock shook his head, “You need to leave.”

John was right, coming down wasn’t going to be pleasant and he feared he may hurt Lestrade in the process.

“Not a fat chance.” Lestrade snorted, “I’m staying here, to get you clean. Will you let me know how long you’ve been doing this?”

“A week.”

Lestrade sighed, nearly since the explosion.

“Okay, you need me to call your brother?”

“No, I would prefer not to witness your  love affair at the moment.”

“No, bloody hell, Sherlock. I mean, do you want him here, like last time? To… make a list or whatever.”

Sherlock held out a piece of paper and handed over to Lestrade.

Lestrade found himself shocked that Sherlock had put any form of trust in him. It seemed… well perhaps old habits die hard.

Lestrade’s mobile rang and he checked the ID.

He flipped it open, “Hello.”

“Greg. How is he? I’m coming back now. I um..” John paused, “I had a chance to cool off and am coming with a few things. Could you tell him?” John’s voice filtered through. Lestrade let out a sigh of relief.

“Yeah, yeah I will. He’ll be happy. He’s… alright.”

He hung up and looked at the detective, who paced his small room, his hands flying to his hair.

“It was John.” Sherlock stated.

“Yes, he’s coming back. Bringing a few things. He seemed bloody peeved so you better play nice.” Lestrade paused, watching Sherlock’s reaction.

Sherlock hummed and Lestrade spoke again, “You know this means I have to take you off the case… until you’re clean, that is.”

Sherlock growled and stopped short.

“Detective Inspector, you need me.”

“Yes. God I do, but we agreed, if you’re not clean, no cases.”

Sherlock stepped forward, his eyes wild, “I need to solve this.”

“Then I’ll come back when you’re clean.” Lestrade crossed his arms over his chest and sighed, that was final.

The door opened downstairs and John’s footsteps resounded on the stairs. He came inside and Lestrade called to him.

“In here.”

John marched in, cheeks flushed and still looking angry, but Sherlock also saw worry in those eyes, but was too hazy to seem to want to do anything about it.

Sherlock did not look at him, but he flung the belt on the floor as John picked his away over the smashed mug.

“You call the drugs squad?”

“They’re on their way over now. Dogs and everything.” Lestrade grumbled, pointedly glaring at Sherlock.

“That’s unnecessary. I have it under control.” Sherlock spat.

“You call this under control?” Lestrade gestured to the multiple needles on the floor and the shattered tea mug. “You threw this at John?”

“I- you all need to leave.”

“I asked you a question.”

John was almost taken aback by the ferocity in Lestrade’s voice. He had never seen him speak to Sherlock like this. He’d never had to once John had come in the picture.

“Yes I did. He wasn’t leaving and I… I don’t need him or you here. Leave. Me. Alone.” Sherlock leapt to his feet and advanced on the pair of them, looking quite deranged.

Lestrade held his ground and John was infinitely glad that the detective inspector was here. He had no idea how to handle Sherlock like this. But clearly, Lestrade had too much experience with it.

“Should I give the list to Mycroft or do you want me to give it to John?”

“List?” John asked, looking between the pair of them as Sherlock froze.

“Mycroft.” Sherlock uttered, his voice merely a whisper, “John doesn’t need to see… Give it to Mycroft.” Something in the low tone of his voice shocked John. He seemed ashamed.

“What the hell is going on?”

“Not now, John. Why don’t you go and make some tea and food. I need to speak with Sherlock alone.” Lestrade instructed.

John hesitated, still glancing between the two.

“Go John, I’ll handle this.” Lestrade assured as Sherlock scoffed. John left the room just as he heard Sherlock say, “I don’t need to be handled. I need to be left alone.”

John walked down the hall and sank into his armchair, his knees suddenly weak. So much had happened in the past two hours, John was having difficulty processing it. His thoughts kept coming back to the drugs. Sherlock had been doing cocaine for a week and John hadn’t noticed. He felt hot shame flare in his chest and flood his stomach, making him nauseous. How was he supposed to take care of Sherlock, be his physician, if he couldn’t spot when he was tearing himself apart? How would he be a good boyfriend and partner to Sherlock if he couldn’t help him through this and went walking out on him after Sherlock was already ripping apart at the seams?

John buried his head in his trembling hands, feeling tears swim in his eyes. He huffed out a shaky breath, but it caught in his throat.

He shouldn’t, couldn’t be the one to fall apart right now, not when Sherlock was in such a bad place. He tried to calm his breathing, pinching the bridge of his nose and sobbing shakily. He took a breath and wiped his tears away, standing up and squaring his shoulders. Sherlock needed him now more than ever and he couldn’t be falling apart like that. 

_ Pull yourself together solider. _

He told himself before heading off to the kitchen to make tea and sandwiches.

The night yawned on, while a group of men from the drugs squad, luckily devoid of Anderson or Donovan, searched their flat. John watched as the dogs tore apart their flat. Sherlock talked to Mycroft on the phone in John’s room (Sherlock’s room now being off limits until they found all of the cocaine) and Lestrade stood beside John, shaking his head and making little huffing noises.

“How did we miss this?” Lestrade finally blurted out, looking both parts exasperated and regretful.

“You mean how did I miss this?” John corrected him.

“No, this was on both of us. How could he hide this from us, from you? You’re dating him for God’s sake.”

“I know, Greg!” John shouted and some of the officers glanced around. “Don’t you think I know that? I live with him, I’m a doctor, I should have bloody well seen the signs!”

Lestrade looked stricken and gestured John into his armchair, “It’s alright mate, it wasn’t your fault. I didn’t mean it like-“

“But I’m supposed to look after him! I makes sure he eats and sleeps and doesn’t kill himself during a case. I patch him up, practically sewing him back together when he refuses to go to the hospital and I didn’t notice he was drugged out of his mind! He’s destroying himself and I just let it happen! What if I hadn’t found him when I did? What if he overdosed and I found him-“ John’s voice cracked and he looked away, furiously blinking back tears as his face reddened in embarrassment.

“I’m sorry, Greg. I’m just tired.”

Lestrade leaned against the fireplace and frowned thoughtfully at the army doctor.

“This isn’t your fault John. You’ve made him better. Don’t you see? Before you… God, when he was on drugs, it was… John it was a bloody mess. He would show up to crime scenes high, he would… it took him so long to clean up his act. The detoxing was the worst part. Being there when he would be screaming and in pain…” Lestrade shook his head, “Believe me. Since you came round, he’s been, well the closest I’ve seen to happy that Sherlock can get.”

John bit his lip but nodded. “Yeah but-“

“It’s the case, John. Its gotten to him and he forgot that he has you now. You know he has trouble opening up to people and he gets so in his head…  this isn’t your fault, okay?”

John opened his mouth to argue when Sherlock entered, his posture slumped and his eyes dark.

“‘Lo Sherlock.” John attempted a smile but Sherlock didn’t look at him and slumped onto the couch and spat at Lestrade, “Are they done yet?”

“They’ll be done when they’re done. What’d Mycroft have to say?”

“None of your business.” Sherlock turned his back to them. John sighed and set a mug of tea on the table. “If you want it.” before sitting in his armchair, rubbing his eyes.

“We’re all done here sir. Found the rest of the cocaine and some cigarettes. Shall we bring him in?”

“No,” Lestrade replied, “We’ll… rehabilitate him here. But take all of that back to the Yard. I’ll want it analysed.”

“Very good sir.” And with that the officers and their dogs left.

John stood and started toward Sherlock before asking Lestrade, “Can you give us a minute, Greg.”

“Sure. I thought I’d head out. Sleep a few hours and come back tomorrow. Just call if you need anything.”

“Thanks Greg. For everything.” John smiled at him and Lestrade nodded. He left the flat.

John approached Sherlock’s unmoving form on the couch carefully.

“Uh… Sherlock?”

“Leave John.”

“No.”

“John-“

“No Sherlock, I’m not making that mistake again. I’m sorry I walked out on you before. Now I’m not going to doctor you or lecture you if you don’t want that. But you’re shaking and you look cold and I just want to help you. I want to be here with you. Do you want that or do you really want me to leave? Cause I’ll go lie down if you don’t want me around. But if you want me to I-“

“John.”

“Yes Sherlock?”

“Shut up and you can stay.”

Slightly affronted, John huffed and then poked Sherlock’s legs, “Then budge up.”

Sherlock scooted his legs in and rolled onto his back, curling around so his head was resting in John’s lap.

“Sherlock- Can I check your vitals?”

“No.” He replied flatly.

John sighed but nodded, raking a hand through Sherlock’s raven locks and gazing down on his face.

“How are you feeling?”

“M’fine.”

“No you’re not. Your pupils are dilated and unable to focus. You’re shaking, probably from coming down. So don’t lie to me, I can tell.”

“It’s worked thus far.” Sherlock mumbled and John scowled at him before standing up and hauling Sherlock with him, who groaned.

“Bed.” John ordered, pushing Sherlock up the stairs to their room and tucking him into bed.

“But John the case-“

“You are no longer apart of it until you clean up. So rest dammit.” John murmured, “I’ll be right there.”

Sherlock was restless that night, shaking and mumbling in his sleep. He tossed and turned and John made sure to watch over him the entire night, checking his vitals and soothing him when he became restless. When dawn broke, Sherlock cracked open his eyes, blinking around at the light filtering in from the windows.

“What time is it?” Sherlock slurred, blinking through bloodshot eyes. John, who had been nodding off lifted his head and rubbed his eyes, “a bit after 8:30. How are you feeling now?”

John grabbed his wrist and took his pulse. Sherlock groaned, closing his eyes once more.

“Tired.”

“Get some more rest, I’m going to make us some breakfast and I want you to eat all of it.” John replied, his eyes set and leaving no room for argument.

Sherlock did not reply but John suspected it was because he was mostly asleep once more. John planted a kiss to Sherlock’s sweaty forehead and exited the room. He made his way to the kitchen, stumbling slightly in his fatigued state. The weak sun filtered through the curtains. He threw them open and dust danced in the light.

John put the kettle on and turned on the television, placing toast in the toaster and pulling out the jam. The news was reporting on something that made him spin toward the TV and gasp.

“Angelo Ricoletto was found dead in the restaurant he owned, he appeared to have been shot. Scotland Yard is investigating the case now and Detective Inspector Lestrade refused comment.”

John sank into the kitchen chair, breathing out short, angry breaths. He pinched the bridge of his nose and clenched his jaw, slamming his eyes shut.

It had to be Moran. John thought bitterly, thinking quickly. Sherlock couldn’t see this, he needed to get clean and heal before he was given this kind of shock. John stood and quickly turned off the TV. The toast popped out of the toaster and John started, his heart racing. His phone buzzed and he grabbed it off the table where he had left it the previous night.

It was from Lestrade.

_ Don’t let Sherlock watch the news today. _

John sent a reply

_ I’ve seen it already. Sherlock’s still asleep. This couldn’t have been Moran, could it? _

Lestrade’s reply came a minute later.

_ It looks like it. I’m meeting with Mycroft to see what the hell is going on. Don’t worry, just focus on our detective. We need him more than ever now. _

John let out another steadying breath, hoping that Sherlock would be too out of it to read the emotion written clearly across his face.

He smeared jam on the toast just as Sherlock stumbled into the room. He looked terrible. Dark circles clung under his eyes. His hair was in disarray and John noticed a minute tremble in his hands.

“Sherlock. Why are you out of bed?”

“I need it John.” Sherlock stated, his voice sounding gravelly and rough.

“No, no Sherlock. You don’t. We’re getting you clean. So come and sit. I’ve made you tea.” John quipped.

Sherlock looked as though he wanted to protest but John leveled him with a gaze. Sherlock shrank onto the sofa and John placed a mug of steaming earl grey in his hands and pushed the plate of toast toward him.

“Not hungry.” Sherlock grumbled.

“You will eat.” John ordered.

Sherlock, surprisingly put the toast in his mouth and chewed, looking disgruntled.

“So,” John began, putting on his best smile, “What shall we do today?”

“You’re upset, John. Why?”

_ Shit. _

“It’s nothing, I’m fine.”

“That’s my line.” Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at him, fixating on John with his near x-ray look.

“I’m… just worried about you is all.” John replied, sitting on the couch beside him, hugging his own mug of tea.

“There’s more.” Sherlock stated.

“Drop it.” John warned, “Today is about you. So, should we go on a walk?”

“Ugh, dull.” Sherlock rolled his eyes.

John huffed, “Thai? We could both use a square meal.”

“We could go to Angelo’s.” Sherlock suggested, meeting John’s startled gaze.

“Um…” John began but Sherlock’s eyes bored into him.

“It was Moran, wasn’t it?” Sherlock stated, his face impassive.

“W-what?” John feigned ignorance, cursing Sherlock for his observational skills. How had he found out?

“I have a phone you know, with internet.” Sherlock snapped, reading John’s mind.

John sighed, “I’m sorry you had to find out that way, Sherlock. He was a good man.”

“Who was killed by a man I thought was locked up. I will be having words with my dear brother when he arrives.”

“Wait, he’s coming here?” John asked, standing.

“Any minute now, better look sharp John, he’s in a fowl mood.”

John spluttered before the door opened and Mycroft Holmes stood in the doorway.

“Well, you are looking dreadful, dear brother.” Mycroft simpered, his mouth a thin line and his eyes cold.

“What have you done?” Sherlock spat, leaping to his feet. He swayed and John steadied him, glaring daggers at the elder Holmes brother along with his flatmate.

“My hand was forced, Sherlock. I assure you, it was not my intention to let him loose on London once more.”

“What did he offer you?”

“It’s what I offered him, Sherlock.”

Sherlock paled, “You traded information about Moriarty for his release.”

“His release to America.” Mycroft corrected, the tap tap of his umbrella muffled by the carpet underfoot.

“And let me guess, he got away.”

“Moriarty’s men we’re waiting at the docks and they killed every agent, both American and my own. Don’t suppose you’d care about that though.” Mycroft scowled, all traces of a smile wiped from his face now.

“You fool.” Sherlock spat, trembling harder now, “You bloody fool.” Sherlock staggered toward his brother, coming face to face with him, looking quite deranged, “Angelo’s blood is on your hands.” He hissed, “And the blood of every victim he kills next. And I have to clean up your mess.”

“No, Sherlock.” Mycroft replied, his tone condescending, “You’re off the investigative task force until you are clean. And I don’t want you going near this case, regardless.”

Sherlock grabbed Mycroft’s collar and shoved him against the wall. John stepped forward in weak protest, his eyes glued on the quarreling brothers.

“He will keep coming for those who are connected to me, and he will not stop. No matter if I’m on the case or not.” Sherlock growled, “So, you will reinstate me and I will catch this lunatic before more people die. I thought you’d understand the gravity of this situation after he blew up the hotel, but apparently I have to repair the damage of your blunder, Mycroft. You have put me in this position and you will not dare to stand in my way now.”

John stared, stunned at the pair. He had never heard Sherlock talk like this, to anyone. Sherlock could get nasty when he was tired or annoyed with those whom he worked a case with, but never had he seen his flatmate spit such venom at anyone. John didn’t blame him for it.

“You’d better leave.” John said in an undertone, “If you know what’s best for you, you’ll go. Now.”

Sherlock released his brother and Mycroft straightened his lapels, taping the end of his umbrella on the floor once more.

“Do be careful, Sherlock. Moriarty has people everywhere. Trust no one and watch your back.”

Mycroft swept from the room and out into the chilly morning before either of them could reply.

Sherlock leaned against the wall, forehead pressed against the cool wood, his breathing shallow.

“Sherlock… come and sit down, I’ll get you some water.”

“How many more will die at my hand, while I am powerless to watch?”

John sighed and put a tentative hand on his shoulder, “Like you said, serial killers are always hard, you have to wait for them to make a mistake. And you know what his mistake was?”

Sherlock turned to him, eyes bloodshot.

“What John?”

“He tried to take on you. You’re a bloody genius. You’re going to solve this, and you’re going to catch him. He didn’t account for that and that was his mistake.”

John pulled him in for a hug and Sherlock grunted, looking disbelieving.

John pulled him at arm's length and grasped his shoulders. “But first, you need a shower and a decent meal. Then were staying in the rest of the day.”

“John, I need to see the crime scene.” Sherlock nearly wined.

“No, Greg won’t let you and besides I won’t either.” 

“John!” Sherlock yelled, trembling more violently. 

“No, this is a non-debatable issue.” John replied, his tone bordering dangerous, “You are going to get clean before we go anywhere near this case. Understood?”

Something in John’s voice must have made Sherlock agree, for he huffed and stormed off to the bathroom. 

  
  


Twenty minutes later, after Sherlock was freshly showered, he was trembling again.

“You alright?” John asked.

“It’s just the withdrawal, John I’ll be fine.” Sherlock shrugged, grimacing slightly.

John sighed and pulled Sherlock into a fresh set of night clothes and dragging him into the kitchen.

“Food will help you feel better. C’mon.” John ordered Chinese and while the order was on its way, he put the kettle on. Sherlock sat in his chair, his leg jumping sporadically. He fidgeted for a minute before jumping up and reaching for his violin. He felt restless, unable to concentrate on anything for long periods of time.

He could feel John’s eyes boring into his back from across the room, but he didn’t give in, he had too much restless energy.

The silence built in the room like a pressure, pressing down on Sherlock’s ears until he couldn’t bare it anymore. It was oppressive, distasteful. The lack of stimulants coursing though his veins felt like an ache. He needed some way to activate his brain, to focus it to a point that provided clarity. He needed to examine this case at all sides and then use his brainpower to find Moran and... but the way John kept glancing at him, with drawn-in shoulders and a trembling hand and _god how had he not seen this before._ With a realization that felt like a blow to the chest, Sherlock understood. John felt responsible for Sherlock's relapse. He felt as though he should have done something more to stop him from going back to drugs. But he simply didn't understand. No one understood that the drugs helped maximize his potential and clear his head, leaving room to ruminate about the case.  


But sweet John had blamed himself. Sherlock closed his eyes for a fraction and let out a small huff. He was burdening John with his addiction. He was making his partner stress needlessly over his well-being. It was written all over the doctors body. His stiff shoulders, his crinkled forhead, the dark circles under his eyes, the rumpled two-day t-shirt, his unshaven face. The list went on and on, as plain as day. He was a great burden to John and the need to explain himself, to do away with some of the guilt churning in his chest, he spoke into the broken air around him. 

“You know, they’re wrong about me.” Sherlock choked the words out, cursing his voice for shaking and blaming it on the withdrawal.

“Who?” John asked, his voice tentative.

“The yard. They think this kind of game is fun for me.” Sherlock spat, “They think I enjoy being taunted like this, watching people I know die and being too stupid to stop it. Mycroft thinks so too. That’s why they all hate me. This is never a game to me.” Sherlock spun around, his heart thumping wildly, feeling suddenly frantic and hating his transport for it. "Don't you see. I don't do the drugs for recreation either. I do it because they help me to think. My brain is so much faster and more productive than any one else's, but that also means it's going so fast that I often cannot control it, slow it down and let it think. I let it control me on a case like this and I cannot have that. I cannot show weakness and I need to be on top of my game at all times. I cannot let those at the Yard think I am weak or emotional, I have to be on top form I-"  


John stood, eyes imploring, “I know that, Sherlock. I know you don’t enjoy bastards like Moran and Moriarty playing around with your emotions. And I know you think the drugs help you. But, my love, they will ruin that beautiful brain of yours.” John placed his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders and rubbed his arms and it wasn’t until then that Sherlock realised he was shaking, trembling, falling apart. _What the hell was wrong with him?_

“John… this… this stupid ploy, it’s torture. I solve puzzles for a living, and this is no puzzle. It’s mindless and moronic, and worst of all I am letting it affect me.”

“I’d be worried if you weren’t affected by it, Sherlock.” John countered, “That’s what makes you such a good detective, you are passionate and you never give up. Espically when those arseholes are hurting people you care about. And look, I know this isn’t easy, but you’ve got me here and-“

“And that is precisely what frightened me, John. They know that. Moran knows what you are to me; he was at the swimming pool. Moriarty certainly knows, he’s already kidnapped you once. It’s only a matter of time… before I…” Sherlock swallowed. How pathetic he was, stumbling over his words like a toddler, “Before there is a bullet in your head John and I am too slow to stop it. Frankly that is not an option. So I am going to have to ask you to leave.”

John lifted his eyebrows at Sherlock and a small grin tugged up his lips, “Nice try.”

Sherlock growled, “I mean it. You are my weak spot. I cannot function without you, and if they get to you I-“

“I am no coward. You just said that you cannot function without me, well then you won’t have to.”

“John you need to leave. I won’t ask again.”

“Good because it’s a stupid thing to say. Of course I’m not leaving you, Sherlock. I knew what I was getting into the moment I went to my first crime scene with you. I’m not backing out now.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to argue but John cut him off, “And that’s enough of that nonsense. Now let's go to bed.”

The next two days passed painstakingly slow for the both of them. Sherlock went in and out of fits, wanting the drugs, staring listlessly at his phone or computer, then wanting the drugs again. Then he went to yelling at John and feeling guilty at the wounded look on the doctors face. John always shrugged the detective off and told him to go to bed. But Sherlock wouldn't have it, he wouldn't let John look like that again because of him.  


On the second night, Sherlock pulled John toward him, begging John to take him to bed, to let him feel rather than think for once. And John complied. He told John to take him hard and swiftly. It was raw and passionate and Sherlock let himself go for the first time in weeks. Afterward, they lay in bed, a panting tangle of limbs, when John pulled him close and kissed his temple.  


"We'll get you though this. You know that right?" He asked Sherlock into the hazy silence. 

Sherlock made a noise of agreement in the back of his throat and allowed John to lull him to sleep with his soft breath and gentle caress. 

On the end of the third day Sherlock awoke from a long nap, feeling more rested than he had in weeks.

“How are you feeling?” John asked for what must have been the 100th time in three days. 

“Fine.” Came Sherlock’s customary reply. They ate dinner in silence and Sherlock yawned again.

“Let’s head to bed and get a fresh start in the morning.” John suggested

Sherlock cocked his head, “Fresh start-“

“Yes, we’ll Greg wants you to have a look at the crime scene photos. And Molly has info about the body..”

“You’re…” Sherlock’s heart bounded, “You’re letting me back on the case.”

“Yes. The withdrawal symptoms are getting less and less and frankly I’m damn tired sitting around with a madman on the loose. Aren’t you?”

“You’re brilliant John. I could kiss you.”

“What’s stopping you?” John asked, feigning indigence.

Sherlock planted a firm kiss on John’s lips, a smirk playing on his mouth all the while.    


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Love meant jumping off a cliff and trusting that a certain person would be there to catch you at the bottom.”  
> ― Jodi Picoult

They went out the next day, first to Barts to get clues off the body and then to Angelo’s restaurant. Sherlock noted that John was still careful around him, he stayed close as Sherlock went about inspecting the crime scene. It took the detective only a few moments to discover that it was in fact Moran’s doing, not that there had been any doubt in his mind from the start. John walked forward to stand beside him, face lined in worry.

“It was him?” John asked quietly. Sherlock merely nodded, snapping off his gloves and looking to Lestrade.

“I’ll text you the information, I don’t have time to explain the ways in which your incompetent officers missed every piece of information laid out in front of them. I have a killer to catch.”

Lestrade opened his mouth to retort but Sherlock was already out of the restaurant and down the street, trying not to think how this was the first place he had taken John (apart from the crime scene) and how now it was decimated. He needed to focus, clear his mind, and find Moran. They walked for about twenty minutes, heading further away from Baker Street. The detective found a bench near a deserted park and sat down, a cool breeze making him pull his coat tighter around himself. He closed his eyes and steepled his fingers.

“Uh…” John began.

“Hush, I’m thinking.”

“Couldn’t you think someplace _warmer_.” Came his partner’s irritated reply.

“No.” Sherlock kept his eyes closed as he continued, “I need to devise a plan. I need to think of where he will be next.”

“And what am I supposed to do?”

“I don’t know nor do I care, hush and let me think.” Sherlock barely heard John’s sigh as he sat down beside him. He was too far into his mind palace already.

It had only been minutes before Sherlock felt a tug on his sleeve. Huffing out a breath of annoyance, Sherlock opened his eyes. “John, for god sake, let me-“ John’s eyes were wide and he tilted his head to his left. Sherlock’s eyes followed and he saw a few figures in the shadows of the trees. They were all watching them and Sherlock saw the outline of a gun in the nearest man’s hands.

“This way, John.” Sherlock muttered, slowly standing and ushering John toward the street.

“Moran?” John questioned, as they walked down the avenue.

Sherlock didn’t respond but merely walked John briskly onward.

“Find a crowd, get him out in the open.” Sherlock muttered more to himself than to his flatmate.

“Yeah, like that worked so well last time.” John mumbled, gripping the inside of his coat.

“Ease up on the gun, John. We don’t want to give them a reason to open fire.”

John huffed but stowed his hands in his pockets instead.

“He’s after me, isn’t he?” John muttered, as they made their way through the thinning streets.

“Yes, but he’ll follow me. I’m easier to spot in a crowd. So listen closely, I want you to head to Scotland Yard when I give the word. Don’t look back and don’t call after me, don’t acknowledge me, just walk at a normal pace and stay on the main road, it's not that far. And for god's sake John, stop tensing up.”

John looked at him and feigned a smile, relaxing his shoulders. Sherlock’s posture was impossibly casual.

“What the bloody hell do you mean, split up? What are you going to do?”

“Lead them off the scent. It’s all in the plan.”

“Plan? What plan? … Sherlock?”

They rounded a corner and a group of people jostled them slightly.

“Now, John. Go. I’ll see you later.”

John, bewildered and his heart thumping uncomfortably fast in his chest, walked off without a word. He was scared for Sherlock but mostly annoyed beyond belief that he was never let in on his plans. The detective had a ludicrous idea that John wasn’t to be trusted with sensitive plans.

But John merely shook his head and kept to the main road, remaining in step with those around him. Sherlock was smart, incredibly so, and if he had a plan John had to trust him to execute it.

John saw New Scotland Yard in sight and picked up the pace, his heart thumping painfully. He was about 20 yards from the door when he heard the  _ pop pop _ of a gun behind him. Breaking into a run, John sprinted toward the door, pulling out his gun as he did so. He saw Lestrade, flanked by four officers coming out, all their guns drawn. Two more shots rang out, shattering the glass on the window next to John.

He felt strong hands close around his chest and pull him back, knocking the gun out of his hand. Cold metal pressed against his head and he saw Lestrade stop short, eyes wide. He threw out his arm to stop his men from storming forward, yelling “Hold your fire!” Then addressing the man holding John, he yelled, “Let him go, you bastard.”

“Don’t think so. Me boss wants this one for his collection. Now I’d back off if I were you. If I can hit a target from 3,000 meters, you think my hand is going to slip now?”

John’s spine tingled. He knew that voice all too well.

At Lestrade’s command, the men slowly lowered their weapons,“Greg, don’t.” John hissed, in a strangled whisper.

“Oh stop being noble.” Came the voice behind him, so close to his ear it made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, “You’re going to die anyway, but the boss wants you alive at first. Figured Sherlock would like to see his prized pet in chains before we slit your throat. It’s a bit kinkier that way, ain’t it.”

Before John could even attempt an escape route, he felt a crushing blow to the head and was out cold.

 

*

It was not an easy road back to consciousness for John Watson. There was an acute pain in his temple that grew exponentially when he cracked open his eyes. Expecting to see a shady underground tunnel or an empty warehouse, John was slightly surprised to see he was tied to a chair in the middle of a lush looking living room. The carpet was a deep crimson and elegant curtains were drawn across long windows. John swiveled his head, ignoring a bought of nausea to crane his neck behind him. A mahogany desk stood close to the wall, with a few folders stacked on top and a spindle chair facing sideways. His vision was a bit blurred when he faced the front again. He was probably concussed, he thought dully.  _ Great. Just great. _

The doctor took in his surroundings once more, trying (and failing) to keep his mind off of what may have happened to Sherlock. This whole kidnapping thing was becoming customary for him, but he wanted to know Sherlock was safe. He tried not to think of Moran’s last words, of what Sherlock would do if he was killed. Instead he focused on his bonds. They were zip-ties, painfully cutting into his wrists and holding his ankles in place on either side of the chair. Ropes would have been easier to wriggle out of, these were just bloody annoying.

The door swung open with a creak and John concealed a startled jump. Three men entered the room, wearing full swat armour and masks. The third pulled off his own, to reveal a shock of red hair and a broad grin.

“Nice of you to join us Doctor W-“

“I’m bloody tired of your ‘super villain’ antics, so can we just skip all of that for fuck’s sake.” The nausea and panic was making John lash out. He could feel his blood pressure rising the longer he looked at the sick bastard in front of him. Moran had caused himself and Sherlock so much pain over the last few weeks that John wanted nothing more than to get a hold of his gun and blow his stupid head off.

Moran chuckled and walked forward, leaving the two men to flank the door.

“You’re a delight, I can see why Sherlock keeps you around.”

“Yeah well I’d be more of a delight if you gave me back my gun.” John sneered. A strange wave of recklessness washing over him. Sherlock would save him before the lunatic got his hands on him. John knew it.

“Where are we anyway? I expected you to take me someplace-“

“Dodgier? No. Me boss treats his guests with more respect than that.”

“Yeah, because the pool was a lovely spot.” John replied.

“That was your boyfriend’s choosing. Although me boss wanted you to go out with a splash, so I suppose it was fitting.”

“And where is your pal, Moriarty? Didn’t want to show his face?” John asked.

“He’s busy with real matters, not this petty thing involving Sherlock Holmes’ little pet.”

“So your just his mail-boy, is that it? Doing his little errands for him, are you?”

“I go where he tells me, yeah. He’s a good boss, lets me kill whoever I want. He’s even going to let me kill you.” An ugly smile spread across Moran’s face as he pulled out a knife, “And I’d like to have a little fun with it.”

John’s heart skipped a beat in his chest.

“Turn on the video,” Moran added to the guard on the left. He man nodded, pulling a camera and a tri-pod from the large armoire in the corner and setting it up in front of John. The guard to the right moved forward and in a flash, pulled out a handgun. The guard turned and the second man shot the first guard in the stomach, just below where the armour fell. The guard cried out in pain, dropping to the floor in a heap. Moran swiveled around in time for the man’s fist to connect with his jaw.

He removed his helmet and a flop of dark curls bounced out of the helmet, “touch him and I will kill you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! I know I'm the worst and that it has been forever and a half since I last posted. And I know this chapter is a lot shorter than the others, but that's because I will be posting the last few chapters a lot closer together, so I wanted to give you a taste and ease you back in. 
> 
> I love you all and I thank you for sticking with this story! We're almost done, so please stay tuned for the last couple chapters here in the next few weeks! <3


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Fear cuts deeper than swords.”  
> ― George R.R. Martin

It had all come down to a calculated risk. One that Sherlock was certain would succeed. As he cut off the zip-ties around John’s wrists and ankles, he inspected his face. It was bloodied from the wound he had received earlier and his eyes were slightly crossed.  _ Concussion, possible disorientation from the wound. _

But it was nothing they hadn’t faced before. If anything this was much less of a threat than any of the other dangers they had been through together.

“Can you stand?” Sherlock asked in a low voice.

“Yeah, yeah I’m fine. Moran, he… you were-“

“Later, John. I’ll cuff him now and we’ll leave him to Lestrade. They’ll be here any minute.”

“But Moriarty will just get him released again.” John protested, grimacing as he lifted his hand up to feel his head.

“Not this time. My brother will be sure to keep him in a secure location. And besides, Moriarty isn’t here to bail him out this time. My contacts say he’s out of the country dealing with other matters.”

Sherlock cuffed a disoriented Moran to a nearby radiator and pulled out his phone, “Lestrade. I have him and yes yes, John’s fine. How long until your men get here? Good okay. No, there weren’t others with him. He likes to work in a small group. Yes I got the other guard. Now will you shut up, John and I are leaving. We are done doing your job for you.” He hung up and beckoned John out of the room.

They were in a large, mansion, with a long, ornate hallway leading to a spiral staircase. Sherlock took the lead down the stairs, devoid of men. They crept down the stairs together, Sherlock holding John’s gun aloft. He hadn’t seen any hostiles upon entering but Sherlock wanted to be cautious. They reached the bottom landing, which was dark save the dim afternoon glow seeping beneath the drawn curtains.

Sherlock gestured toward the coat room that lead to the back door and they headed forward. They reached a large kitchen and a blinding light flicked on. The pair wheeled around and saw two men standing under the entryway to the coat room, a matching pair of grins on their faces.

“Sorry boys, but I’m  _ so _ changeable!”

Moran and Moriarty stood side by side, with Moran pointing a large handgun at Sherlock.

“You didn’t think I’d miss the party, did you?” Moriarty asked Sherlock, smiling wickedly at them.

“You,” Sherlock sneered.

“I know, I know. You’re happy to see me and all that.  But we really have to be going now. Moran, hush them up will you.” Moriarty flicked his hand casually toward Moran and the sniper sneered at them, his gun pointed straight at Sherlock.

“I  _ told _ you I’d burn the heart out of you, Sher. You should have been paying more attention.” 

Moriarty called in a sing-song voice, leaving the room with a backward glance and a wink. The door slammed shut and Moriarty’s whistles faded into nothing.  

 

Moran sneered and turned his gun to John, and before anyone could react, the gun went off with a crack. John let out a little gasp and collapsed beside Sherlock. Sherlock let out a roar of fury, his heart skyrocketing in his chest and without hesitation shot a retreating Moran in the back, hitting his target dead on. He threw the gun aside, falling heavily to his knees beside his flatmate.

“John, John. Listen to me. Listen to the sound of my voice, stay with me, John. You are not allowed to die on me, alright? Stay right here.” Sherlock stared into John’s stormy gaze, tumult with pain and pressed hard on the wound. His doctor,  _ the love of his life _ , was bleeding from a lower chest wound, just below his last rib.

“It’s not even fatal,” Sherlock nearly cried in relief, his hands trembling as he took off his scarf and bunched it up around the gaping hole in his flatmate’s chest. “You hear me, John? You’ve been shot before so you know how this goes. You hurt a bit but you  _ stay alive _ .” Sherlock refused to let his voice break, watching John splutter and gasp around the blood pooling from his mouth.

“Sher… Sherl-“

“Don’t speak you idiot. You’re a doctor, you know that. Now shut up and  _ live _ .” His voice broke into a thousand pieces on the last word, splintering his careful self-control. He fished his phone from his pocket, keeping one hand on the wound, the blood spilling an absolute tide out of his chest.

“Get me an EMT, there’s been a shooting.” He rattled off the address and John’s condition, cursing his voice for trembling. The insanity of this situation was laughable. He threw aside the phone and looked back down at John. Blood pooled from his mouth and ran down his chin. The blood seeped quickly through Sherlock’s scarf and fingers. Nothing about this was funny or romantic like in the movies; the music wasn’t swelling to the time of John’s gasping breaths. It was grotesque and the air was putrid with the tang of blood. The only sounds in the room were the gasping of the two men, one laying on a once pristine tile floor and the other holding his insides in with his hands.

“John, no… do not close your eyes, do you hear me? You’re being ridiculous, this isn’t that bad. You’ll be griping about me not buying the milk next week. You’re going to be fine if you just keep your eyes on me.” Sherlock watched desperately as John gasped and reached his hand up to Sherlock’s face, leaving a trail of blood along his brow.

“Sher…I’m…. s-sorry.” John gasped, tears welling down the sides of his face and joining the blood at his mouth.

“Nothing to be sorry for, I’ll get a new scarf and you’ll help me do the dry-cleaning on this coat.” Sherlock’s voice cracked again but he was far gone past the point of caring, “Where the hell are they?” Sherlock cried, his throat ripping as he screamed. John closed his eyes and his hand fell to his side, just as the distant cry of sirens pierced the air, looming ever closer.

“Not acceptable.” Sherlock hollered at John, releasing one of his hands to check John’s pulse. It took nearly 10 seconds to find it over the thunderous throbbing in his ears. It was weak and practically non-existent under Sherlock’s blood-stained hands.

“No. Not today. Not now. John you keep me sane, you need to be doing that for at least another ten years or until someone possibly murders me, possibly you from my antics…” Sherlock rambled, tears springing to his eyes, just as a group of people crashed into the room, lead by Lestrade. Lestrade’s eyes widened at the gruesome scene in front of him as the crew stepped forward, muttering, “Christ. Jesus Christ.”

The doctors pried Sherlock away from John as, through a trembling voice, he told them John’s condition.

“He has a bullet wound, lower chest, possibly punctured lung, but more likely the liver. Pulse thready, eyes dilated, he’s lost a lot of blood and became unresponsive as you all came in here and-“

“Get him on a gurney-“

“We need oxygen”

“Start CPR, I’ve lost a pulse.”

The doctors bustled around and Sherlock watched in horror as the nearest doctor climbed on top of John and began CPR, just as they wheeled in a gurney. The irrational part of Sherlock snarled in protectiveness. The doctor bent forward and pressed his lips to John’s breathing life into his bloodied and battered chest. Sherlock should have been the one. He wanted the honour of bringing his doctor back to him, to reclaim him from death, instead of watching from the side, a trembling mess on a bloodied tiled floor. They took John outside as the doctor continued stealing John from him, doing what Sherlock couldn’t do for him.

Sherlock stumbled to his feet and nearly fell into Lestrade as his knees nearly gave way. In his haste to get outside, he pushed Lestrade into a near-by wall, ignoring the DI’s calls from behind him. They loaded John into an ambulance and took off before Sherlock could reach them. He ran after them, heart thudding. He wouldn’t lose sight of him.

He could die and Sherlock wouldn’t be there with him.

_ He would be lonely. _

His heart seemed to crack painfully at the thought. How curious, the organ they call a heart, for it wasn’t his heart that was breaking. It was the emotional response in his brain that fired synapses to his nerves that told his heart to feel like it was shattering in his chest like glass and cutting his lungs open, making it hard to breathe. It was merely a chemical reaction to an emotional response and nothing more but he couldn’t breathe and he couldn’t think and his vision tunnelled and how curious that his brain was doing all of this to him, doing a remarkable job of pretending like he was dying when John was the one dying alone in that ambulance with strangers kissing life back into him and seeing him vulnerable and getting his blood all over themselves and-

“Sherlock, christ you’re going to pass out if you keep hyperventilating. C’mon let's sit down for a minute.”

Sherlock snapped back to reality and found himself standing in the middle of the street, drenched in John’s blood and choking on his own breath. In his haze, his eyes turned to Lestrade as the DI led him to the nearest wall, leaning him against the cold brick. Sherlock felt anger rise within him like a beast, permeating the haze of fog and he gripped Lestrade’s lapels, slamming him against the walls bloodying Lestrade’s coat.

“Where the  _ hell _ were you?” Sherlock growled, through broken breaths.

“Moriarty’s men, they ambushed us on the way here, tried to blow up half of my unit. Christ Sherlock, I’m sorry. I thought they didn’t know our plan but they did the whole time.”

Sherlock deflated and pulled Lestrade away from the wall, “then  _ drive me to John _ and we will discuss this later.” Sherlock wheezed, his breathing getting more and more difficult as Lestrade gripped his shoulder.

“Sherlock, c’mon he’s going to make it. He’s strong.”

“ _ Just drive _ .”

Lestrade threw the detective another worried glance before leading him, stumbling, to the car. He opened the front door for him and helped him inside. Sherlock’s breathing was still laboured and he shook violently.

Lestrade got into the front and looked over to Sherlock.

“Mate, you have to breathe. I can’t drive knowing you’re going to pass out on me.”

Tears sprung to Sherlock’s eyes as he tried to regulate his breathing, but each breath caught in his throat until he was coughing and spluttering.

He thought of John, his soft touch on his cheeks, murmuring to him to ‘ _ breathe for me sweetheart, you’re okay’ _ . A fresh wave of agony washed over him and Lestrade turned on the siren and cruised through the streets. John, his John, murmured in his ear, and he could barely hear him over his panicked gasps.

_ ‘I’ve got you, Sherlock. It’s alright. You’re alright now. Just breathe. You’re thinking too fast, just slow it down and listen to the sound of my voice. You’re going to be okay. Just one little breath for me.’ _

Sherlock caught his first breath in what felt like 10 minutes of agony and Lestrade glanced over, worry creasing his brow, “That’s it Sherlock, that’s it.” Lestrade murmured, “Just like that. Everything is going to be okay, mate.”

_ Ironic _ , Sherlock thought, that John was still helping him even when he was dying alone in some surgical room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you thank you for sticking with the story! <3 More to come!   
> Kudos and comments are encouraged!


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